


Instincts

by Reveraine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Romance, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-20 13:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 45,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4788860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reveraine/pseuds/Reveraine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are not as they seem. There are many things people take for granted about the magical world. What if werewolves were not quite what everyone thought? Hermione is going to find out the truth, whether she wanted to or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Weasley Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on fanfition.net

_"The Ministery has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."_

Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice seemed to echo through the stunned hush that fell over the tent. There was an instant of dead silence before panic spread through the crowd like a wave.

_Death Eaters!_  Hermione sprang into action, frantically searching for her friends as the sounds of apparation and alarm assaulted her ears. Somehow, through the sea of color, she caught sight of Harry's Weasley disguise and immediately hurried toward him.  _Where on earth is Ron?_  He had just been there! Without giving herself time for more thought, Hermione grabbed Harry's arm and apparated.

They reappeared in a small clearing, surrounded by thick woods.

"Hermione! Where's Ron?" Harry's voice shook as he looked to her for answers.

"I don't know, Harry!" she replied shrilly, not bothering to even try to hide her concern, "I had to get  _you_  out; you have a job that only you can do."

"I'd be dead without you and Ron," Harry argued.

Hermione gave a quick nod. "We don't have time for this," she said quickly. "You need to stay alive, Harry." She reached into her beaded pouch and pulled out several objects. "Here, set up camp. I'm going to go look for Ron." She apparated away before Harry could protest, leaving the wizard alone in the clearing.

The tent was burning, spreading fire to nearby plants. Debris littered the ground and screams filled the air. Hermione tried not to look at the bodies on the ground as soon as she determined none of them were Ron's. Ducking to avoid inhaling smoke, the witch scrambled out of the burning structure. She ran as soon as she could; searching frantically for any sign of her friend.

"Ron!" she screamed, her ears straining to hear over the sounds of battle. She deftly countered a stray spell that came too close for comfort. She had to find him! She raced toward the Burrow, hoping he had run to somewhere familiar. She desperately glanced at every dark shape on the ground, praying they were no one that she knew.

* * *

The scent of fear permeated the air. It was a welcome smell; familiar and exciting. Terror blew around the muggle-lover's home as much as the smoke from the Death Eaters' fires. Fear made the chase even more exhilarating, even when the moon was not out to play.

Wand in hand, Fenrir Greyback charged into the panicked crowd alongside the Death Eaters. Their prey was apparating away quickly, but there were still many remaining. Some had been killed by the initial spells that had been fired into the pandemonium, but some were rousing from their stunned states. Those who either could not escape magically or were engulfed in panic were trying to flee on foot. A cruel grin appeared on his face as he caught wind of life in the large tent.

Some foolishly brave witch threatened him, brandishing her wand. A mistake; waiting for him to respond. He silently disarmed her and let loose and excited snarl. The terrified woman turned to run, but the werewolf was quicker. He grabbed her arm, wrenching the witch toward him. She cried out in pain; he suspected he had broken something. She shook in his hold, reeking with the sweet scent of fear. He took the time to revel in the smell before tearing into the witch's neck with his strong teeth. The witch screamed, trying to struggle out of his iron grasp. As he moved in once again, this time to kill, a breeze blew past his nose, carrying a new scent.

Greyback froze; this fragrance was something he had never smelled before, but he knew what it meant. It was  _her._  The high from the terror that swirled through the air paled in comparison to the elation this scent brought him. Every other scent was gone; turned into insignificant, useless odors. There was nothing like it anywhere else, it belonged to only one woman, and he would find her.

Fenrir dropped his catch onto the ground with a thud. He barely registered the witch's movements as she scrambled to get away from him; he had long forgotten her. There was nothing in the world but this glorious scent and the woman that went before it. An unfamiliar heat flowed through his limbs, driving him to follow the scent; he hardly needed such encouragement. After so many years, she was here, right under his nose; but then the trail stopped cold. She must have apparated away from this spot. The werewolf let out an inhuman snarl. He had missed her by mere moments. He allowed himself to savor her lingering scent, quietly wondering how long it would be before he was able to catch her scent again.

Fenrir Greyback had caught the scent of his mate, and he would find her again. Despite his certainty, he swore irritably. He had been so close.

Frustrated, the werewolf ran out of the now vacant tent. He did not bother to raise his wand at the wizard who came at him. Growing increasingly vexed, Fenrir jumped at the unsuspecting man, tearing out his throat before he could even scream.

The sight of the man's blood only enraged him further, he needed to find  _her_. Little else mattered to him at this point. His nostrils still caught faint traces of her scent mixed with another male's; causing a jealousy he had never experienced to course through him. He stalked on, watchful for someone else to kill. It was a small ease on his frustrations, but it was more than nothing.

The prey had scattered; wizards and witches now few and far between. The once overwhelming scent of fear was no longer but a lingering fragrance, just like her scent. Fenrir closed his eyes, allowing his other senses to guide him. He quickly picked up the sound of labored breathing from nearby. He did not need to smell the witch for all the noise she was making. Following the sound, Fenrir came upon the woman he had bitten minutes before.

The witch was cowering in a dark corner, positively rank with terror. She babbled and cried as Fenrir stalked over to her pathetic form. He chuckled at her efforts before bodily lifted her off the ground and sinking his teeth into her throat. It took some time for her to stop screaming. He dropped what was left of her still twitching body onto the ground, this time for good. Wiping the excess blood from his face, he casually glanced around for another victim.

The telltale pop of apparation immediately caught his attention. Who would dare apparate into such chaos? He moved toward the origin of the sound, quickening his pace at the sound of frantic footsteps. A woman's panicked call filled his ears.

"Ron!"

His curiosity piqued, Fenrir followed. As he reached the point she had appeared, his nostrils were once again assaulted by the same scent from the tent.  _Her_  scent.

A snarl left the werewolf's throat as he tore after her. She was putting herself in danger to find another male. Jealousy tore through him at the very thought; he was not going to let her go a second time. He raced after her, oddly proud of her foolish display of bravery, never catching more than a glimpse of brown waves around a corner. He heard her footsteps stop, ad her voice wafted over to his ears.

"Ron!" She was relieved, making Fenrir growl angrily as he approached. "You're alive!"

The male replied, "Yeah, bloody sore, though. Where's Harry?"

Fenrir rounded the corner of the rickety house; an involuntary snarl left his lips when he finally saw  _her_.  _Her;_  being embraced by a scrawny red-headed  _boy_. Both their heads flew up at the sound.

Brown met amber for a split second before she apparated, taking the boy with her.

* * *

"That was close!" Hermione still shook with adrenaline as she stood in the clearing in the Forest of Dean. They were safe for the time being.

"Who do you reckon that was, Mione?"

She replied shakily, "I don't know. He wasn't a Death Eater."

"How do you figure that?"

"I pay attention, Ron." She huffed. "Honestly. His arms were bare, there was no dark mark. Oh! But Ron! That—that snarl!" She shivered. That sound had made her want to curl up into a ball and pray.

"Greyback," Ron said softly.

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. "Ron, that can't be right. Greyback is supposed to be…" She paused, searching for the right word.

"Dead? In prison? Albania?" Ron offered.

"Ugly." She replied quietly. "Monstrous. That did not at all look like how others have described him. That man looked nearly normal; how could he be Greyback?"

The redhead gave her an incredulous stare. "I don't know what you are thinking, but I don't consider blood dripping down wolf teeth a normality on a human, Hermione."

Hermione shook her head, trying to gain some clarity. She had seen the blood, she had seen his inhuman fangs, but she had ignored them. She had looked straight past them and into the werewolf's amber eyes.

_You're getting sloppy, Hermione._  She scolded herself. Perhaps she merely needed some rest.

She hoped Harry had figured out the tent.

* * *

 


	2. Snatched!

 

"Ronald Bilius Weasley, I cannot  _believe_  you!" Hermione stalked out of the camp that the trio had made in the Forest of Dean. Tears threatened to fall down her cheeks as she stormed off. Being in the same room as the redhead was beginning to be unbearable. He claimed to care for her, but was being so inconsiderate toward her feelings.

 _No_ , she thought,  _we're all just stressed._  She hoped a walk would relieve some of her anger; it had always helped her to go off by herself and process everything that had happened. Walking gave her time to work through it all in her own head before she had to return to figure out how to fix their problem.

The forest was beautiful; a haven of sorts in these dark times, but it was not enough to distract the distressed witch. The birds were singing as though nothing was amiss in the world; as though there were no Death Eaters and no war; but Hermione knew better, and so her stress lingered. Without the constant presence of her friends, Hermione found herself growing nervous and jumpy; the opposite of what she had set out for. Every rustle of leaves and every scrape made by branches caused her to start. She struggled to find solace in the peaceful place, wondering if she would ever find peace of her own again. Even if they won the war; even if they defeated Voldemort, she doubted she would ever again truly be able to relax. She did not think she would ever be able to stop looking over her shoulder. The thought of never feeling safe again discouraged her further. She trudged on through the forest, trying to keep her mind off the conversation that had turned into an argument. To be honest, she was not even sure what they had been arguing about. It could have been anything from food to shelter to where they ought to look next; Hermione suspected it was the latter. They had no leads; not one of them had an idea of where to find the next horcrux, and tensions were running high because of it.

Hermione looked around worriedly as the forest grew suddenly silent. She stopped and strained her ears, trying to hear any sign of danger. A shout from the campsite came as an answer to her thoughts. Springing into action, she whipped out her wand and raced toward the clearing. Panic filled her as she realized she may not reach them in time to help.

Why had she strayed so far from camp? She should not have gone so far out. Hermione ran, following the sound of shouting. She could see the clearing; but she was still not close enough to help. The light from spells darted back and forth between the trees, blocking her view of the battle. There was a series of loud cracks, and then everything was silent. Hermione cried out, her sobs deafening in the silent wood. She had failed; she could not save her friends and it all because of her pride. If she had only swallowed her dignity and stayed to work things out instead of storming off, they would all be together now.

 _No. I cannot think that way. They will be fine,_ she told herself. A small measure of hope filled her at the sound of footsteps behind her. She spun, want out, hoping that one of the boys had escaped. Her heart filled with dread as her wand was knocked from her hand and she turned to face a dark clad chest.

Her wand fell harmlessly to the forest floor and Hermione did the only thing she could think of: she turned to run. Her shoulder twisted as she spun away and she cried out in pain as her whole arm was wrenched back. Looking down, she saw a large hand around her wrist. She was trapped. Forcing herself to breathe, she looked up into the face of her captor. Her eyes traveled upward to meet a square jawline covered in an even coat of dark stubble. A straight nose greeted her next; his nostrils flared slightly as he breathed. Hermione shrunk back in fear as she met his eyes, the same amber irises she had seen only a few weeks before.

_Fenrir Greyback._

Hermione felt the sickening tug of apparation. It seemed like hours before the sensation ended and she reappeared. She managed to note that she was now indoors, but could not make out any more than that. She felt as though she was going to vomit. She barely registered her captor's hands on her shoulders, steering her somewhere. She collapsed into a chair at a light pressure from the werewolf. Her vision was spotty and she was at a loss for what to do. She was trying not to let her fear in, but she was more afraid than she had ever been before.

Hermione felt the werewolf brush a hair out of her face, before he turned and left her alone in the large room. Her heart sank further when she heard the click of a lock. She bowed her head, holding it in her hands.  _How could this have happened?_  She hoped Harry and Ron were somehow safe. She knew it was unlikely, but perhaps the Order had intercepted their captors. She tried to swallow the growing lump in her throat. Would Greyback be replaced by Voldemort? Or Bellatrix? She was not sure which of the three was worse. She fought to keep tears from leaking out of her eyes.

"Come on, Granger, buck up. Where is your Gryffindor courage?" She wiped her eyes and stood. Her legs shook, but she forced them to hold her weight. She could not simply give up. "There has to be a way out," she reasoned.

Hermione tried shaking her head to clear it. She blinked rapidly, clearing her vision; she could finally see her surroundings.

The large room was bathed in a soft, warm light; and deep, rich colors were pervasive in the space. Hermione frowned; these colors were not like any dark wizard's chosen décor she had ever seen. She expected to be in a room that resembled a dungeon; or Grimmauld Place at the very least. The whole space was almost cheery, if sophisticated. The furnishings were all made with some sort of dark wood, perhaps Mahogany; Hermione was never great at distinguishing one wood from another, neither did she care. The whole room looked very well cared for, not at all a place to keep a prisoner. There was no doubt of her captivity, but she was beginning to wonder if it was a simple as she had thought before. She made her was over to one of the windows, hoping to glean some sort of information about where she was. A small hope pervaded her thoughts:  _Perhaps the windows had been overlooked._

Hermione looked through the glass to find that she was several stories off the ground, looking over the English moors. The walls within her vision reminded her of Hogwarts and other castles she had visited around Europe with her parents. Shear walls with no footholds and a hundred foot fall were all that greeted her from the windows. There was no way to climb down, even if the windows were unlocked.

There was no way down, and no way out. There was nothing she could do but wait. Glancing around again, she walked over to the bookshelves. The familiar smell of books set her mind at ease for the moment. Reading would keep her mind off her predicament.

Perusing the selection, Hermione smiled at sight of some familiar tomes. She was surprised at the number of volumes covering the shelves. There were even a few books she recognized as purely Muggle items. They were well read, but all were in good condition; all except a few near the top.

 _Hairy Snout, Human Heart, Wandering with Werewolves, Lunar Cycles,_ she read the titles of some of the abused books. "They are all about werewolves," she mused aloud. Curious, she grabbed one off its shelf to find much of the book scratched out; entire pages missing. There was not a page that did not have something written in the margins or over the text. She closed the innocent book in disgust, placing it back on the shelf. Turning her attention back to the well-kept books, she picked up an unfamiliar text and sat herself down to read.

* * *

Fenrir ran a hand through his dark hair. He loathed being belittled by other wizards; wizards who would not be able to best him in a duel.  _It will be worth it_ , he told himself, his pack would have free reign again. The others, this  _Order_  would never allow such chaos in their perfect world. Werewolves were monsters that had to be controlled; they were only considered human if they agreed to be subjugated. Still angry, he bit back the urge to snarl at the man who approached him.

The man immediately picked up on Fenrir's mood and quickly changed his posture. He lowered his eyes and shrunk back, making himself smaller.

Fenrir grunted in approval. His Beta knew when he could speak freely, and now was not one of those times. He was trying not to take his anger out on the man in front of him, but if the man showed any sign of anything but submission, he was not sure what he would do.

"She has been crying." The man said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor.

The larger werewolf nodded, "Mensis, go be with your mate."

The man gave a further inclination of his head and turned toward his quarters.

Fenrir watched him go, proud of the smaller wolf's accomplishments. He had practically raised him; he had been only six years old when Fenrir found him. That had been over twenty years ago. He had grown into place well. Mensis and his mate were expecting their first cubs any day now, and it made the male nervous to leave her for too long. Turning away, Fenrir stalked toward the southernmost wing of the castle, snarling at anyone unfortunate enough to not have taken notice of his particularly foul mood; those that did cowered as he passed. There was no doubt who the Alpha was today.

The werewolf heard her sobs as he approached. Her tears were quiet, but his keen ears easily picked up on the sound. She may have been docile and defeated in that moment, but she would put up a fight. He had looked forward to it for some time. Her stubbornness would serve her well eventually; she was strong, and he had been itching to poke at her buttons since he discovered her.

She did not raise her head when he entered. Her brown waves cascaded over shoulders that shook with her quiet sobs. There was a book in her lap, presumably long forgotten. He took a moment to watch her, to take in her scent. Her small frame was hunched over, her hands plastered over her eyes. The sharp fragrance of fear overwhelmed her natural scent; Fenrir wanted to smell her as she truly was, but he did not think he would have the opportunity any time in the near future.

Fenrir walked up to her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. He quickly squashed the rising instinct to comfort her when she spun around and backed away from him. She scrambled backward until she could not go any further, her eyes wide with fear. Her eyes; they were beautiful, just like the rest of her. Bright doe eyes stared up at him, wet with tears. She trembled under his gaze, but he hardly noticed. Underneath all the fear, there was some semblance of her true scent. Just a hint of it nearly drove him mad. Even if she had not been as beautiful as she was, he would still be called to her; but that was not the case. She was the most gorgeous thing he had ever seen. He had never been one to look for beauty in anything, but everything about her made him want to know her; to wipe away her tears. He grit his teeth; she was not a wolf yet. She was a helpless doe; she would be seen as prey.

He thought about claiming her there and then, but he wanted her to trust him. It would take a long time as it stood now; he was not willing to completely jeopardize that yet. He could not hurt her; and he did not want to. His mind was torn between wanting to comfort her and knowing that she could not be coddled, not if she was going to survive in his world.

He stared at her, pulling his lips up into a malicious grin. He did not like her so afraid, but it was necessary. She needed to know who exactly was in charge before anything else. Slowly, she seemed to regain some of her courage and stood up tall, her eyes meeting his as he moved toward her.

 


	3. Unreal Utterances

Hermione bit back the scream that had tried to escape her throat when she felt an unknown hand on her shoulder. Not stopping to think, she flung herself away from the light pressure, scrambling toward the wall. Her breath was rapid and her heart pounded in her chest as she sat huddled in the corner. Her gazes darted upwards; up at the werewolf who was the cause of her terror.

 _Come on, Granger, you were a Gryffindor for a reason._  Trembling, she determinedly met Greyback's amber eyes and immediately began to regret it. She forced her shaky muscles to stand as she struggled to match her captor's gaze. There was something in his eyes; something that caused shivers to run down her spine.

Hunger; hunger and barely concealed rage hovered behind his eyes. She was no more than a snack, saved only to be devoured when convenient. She felt sick at the thought; she was not even worth interrogating. What would a muggleborn know that would be useful to anyone? The useless Mudblood, fit only for the wolves. She clenched her fists as the werewolf stalked toward her; she was not going to go down without a fight. She struck out at him only to have her blow stopped by a strong hand. Before she could react, he had pinned both of her arms against the wall. She struggled against his grip, but he did not seem fazed by it. The grin that spread across his face at her pathetic efforts to remove him infuriated her.  _I am not useless,_ Hermione screamed to herself, but the werewolf's iron grip seemed to refute everything she was telling herself.

Hermione stiffened as the man closed his eyes as inhaled. She could only guess why.  _How dare he eat me!_  She knew of the tales of Greyback's savagery, and refused to be a snack to the wolf's insatiable appetite. She brought her knee up hard, but all she managed to hit was his thigh. His grin was gone, replaced by a bored stare. She could not escape this; she could never hope to break through the barrier of his limbs.

Hermione tried to steady her voice as she spoke, "Didn't you ever learn not to play with your food?" She hoped talking would give her some time to devise a plan that did not involve brute strength; he would win that battle every time.

The wolf's deep voice rang out huskily in reply, "I was never very good at following that particular rule."

Hermione shivered at the sound of his voice. It reminded her of a growl; a horrible, menacing growl.

"Please," she said, hardly believing the plea that was escaping her mouth. "Please make it quick."

The werewolf loosened his hold on her slightly and met her tear-filled eyes. Hermione held her head up high, trying to preserve whatever dignity she had left, but hot tears ran down her cheeks, revealing her fear.

"I will make no promises," he said. "However, I am not going to kill you."

Hermione frowned, biting her lip she replied, "You aren't going to eat me? Isn't that what he orders you to do? Kill insignificant mudbloods like me?"

A fierce snarl ripped out of the werewolf's throat. Hermione jumped and continued to cry. The sound was terrifying. Her body seemed to seize up of its own accord as the sound reached her ears.

"No one gives me orders, girl. Blood does not matter; we are all wolves," he sounded offended at her accusations.

Hermione's eyes widened in panic. "No. Please. I don't want to be a werewolf."

"Oh, you will." His grin had returned; his abnormally large canine's shone in the soft light.

She turned her nose up at the thought. "Never. I would not wish this curse on anyone."

A soft laugh rumbled through the werewolf's chest. "You will feel differently very soon," he threatened, lowering his sharp teeth towards her.

She struggled to get free as his mouth came dangerously close to her neck.

He barked another laugh and pulled away. "You really are quick to jump to conclusions, mate."

Hermione's eyes went wide, if he wanted to confuse her, he had certainly succeeded. She continued to tremble, no longer bothering to keep her fear hidden. He was crazy; unlike any enemy she had faced before. He was enjoying her fear; perhaps she would stay alive if she indulged him. It was not hard to be afraid; underneath what may have been an otherwise handsome face laid the most savage werewolf of the age. His fiery eyes did nothing to hide his true nature, in fact, they all but revealed it. When he opened his mouth, even a little, his long canines dominated his expression. He had said he was not going to kill her, but why would he keep her alive? He had no reason to tell her the truth. He could kill her whenever it pleased him, so she could not give him any excuses to do so. Harry and Ron would need her once the Order rescued them; she had to stay alive for them.

This time, she let her voice shake as she spoke, "W—Why should I b—believe anyth—ing else? You—You eat people."

The werewolf shrugged casually. "Sometimes." That horrible grin returned to his face as he spoke, "My teeth aren't just for show, they also work quite well."

She shivered as he bared his fangs at her once more, regaining some of her courage, she frowned at him, "It's disgusting."

He cocked his head at her statement, "It is the natural order of things. Why do you think I have teeth? Wolves eat meat, pet. So do you, you merely use a fork."

_After this, I might just become a vegetarian._

The werewolf roared with laughter. Hermione's mouth hung open when she realized she had voiced her thoughts aloud.

Fenrir chortled as he reined in his laughter, "I think you will change your mind."

"What makes you so certain?" She replied, glaring at her captor.

" _You_  might call it intuition."

She narrowed her eyes, "What do  _you_  call it?"

"Instinct."

Hermione set her jaw. It was no wonder he was labeled the most savage werewolf of the time; he had not only taken lycanthropy to heart, but had allowed it to permeate his mind as well. He may as well have been a wolf for the way he seemed to think. She was a toy, a wolf's plaything. She was tonight's entertainment. Disgust at his disregard for humanity fueled her anger and began to overpower her fear.

"You're right. I would not call it instinct. I would call it sick torment. Whatever you do to me, you cannot  _make_  me change my mind about anything," she stated firmly, her face scrunched in repulsion.

"I won't have to," he said plainly, "I think you will come along quite well on your own."

The grin he shot her was more upsetting than the last had been. She felt like she was going to vomit; he had to be bluffing. What on earth was he planning to do to her that would cause her to  _want_  to be cursed?

"What do you want from me?!" she demanded, angry with his flippant regard for her.

"Want?" The werewolf's face brightened in a disturbing manner, causing Hermione to regret her question.

Suddenly acutely aware that the werewolf had slid a hand down to her thigh while she had been talking, her eyes widened. She tried to push against his chest as he pulled her towards him, but he was so much stronger than she. Nothing she did seemed to make any sort of impact on him. She shivered as his hand slid down her leg to her knee, pulling her limb over his hip. She could not believe how grievously she had misread his intentions. Her mind seemed to finally reconnect with her body and she tried to struggle against his weight.

Tears streamed down Hermione's face as she struggled not to blubber. The low rumble coming out of the werewolf's throat was affecting her in a strange way. Yes, it was terrifying; but fear had never rendered her immobile before. Her body seemed to be against her, moving against him seemed so far from achievable in her current state. It was a trick; he must have cast a spell on her. He was a duelist, it was possible. She ignored the urge to be still as the rumble grew louder. He could not control her like this, she would not allow it.

"Do you understand me now, mate?" Fenrir growled; the steady rumble ever present in his rough voice.

Why on earth was he calling her by that abhorrent title? He was not an animal; werewolves were no different than humans when it came to procreation. There was nothing special about them. Greyback was merely deluded into thinking he was different. She continued to squirm in his grasp, though she achieved nothing more than irritating the already angry werewolf. He continued to give her an uninterested stare as she struggled, infuriating her more. Finally, his grip on one of her wrists loosened enough to wrench her hand free. She quickly threw it up to strike her captor, but froze once more as an enraged snarl tore out of the werewolf's throat as he lunged for her neck.

Forcing herself to breathe, Hermione did not dare to move more than that. The delicate skin on her throat was caught between Greyback's robust canines. His hold was gentle, if you could call anything he did gentle. He had not pierced her skin, but that would not mean he wouldn't. This was a warning. Any movement on her part could break skin. Hermione was surprised he was patient enough to not kill her as soon as the mood suited him. Perhaps he was under orders not to kill her. She did not imagine he had enough restraint to toy with her so if he was not explicitly told she was to be kept alive.

It felt like several minutes, but Hermione knew it had not been nearly that long, before the werewolf gave a satisfied grunt and released her throat.

Fenrir met her eyes once more and spoke, "This is better, isn't it mate?" He flashed his ivory fangs at her.

Exasperated, Hermione returned his grin with a harsh glare. " _What_  did you call me?!"

"Mate." The wolfish grin he gave her was more than a little unsettling.

"What makes you think you can call me that?" she replied angrily.

His grin did not leave his face as he responded, but there was a warning in his tone that had not been there a moment before, "It is what you are."

"I most certainly am not!" she protested. "You may be far stronger than I am, but you cannot make me yours or anyone else's!"

"It is not a choice," he responded plainly, as though discussing the color of the sky. He seemed to believe what he was saying as though it was a simple fact of life.

She continued to glare at her captor. "Werewolves aren't any different than people," she insisted firmly, "You are just like the rest of us." He could not possibly believe he was so different, could he?

Fenrir cocked his head to the side, a grin reappearing on his face. "How do you know that, pup?"

It was not her name, but at least it was an improvement. "None of the books say anything remotely regarding mating, and Lupin—"

Fenrir let out a snarl at the mention of her former professor, "That mutt cannot tell you anything about us. He does not even know himself."

Hermione tried not to shrink back at the werewolf's vehement speech. "The books…" she repeated.

He rolled his eyes, bringing another frown to her face. "Where do you think they collect the evidence for their books? Use your brain, pup; I know you have one up there somewhere."

The witch glared at her captor, "By studying werewolves."

"And what kinds of werewolves are most eager to have research done on the subject?"

"People—" she paused to consider her answer carefully, "People who don't want to be werewolves." Was he saying what she thought he was? It was not possible for them to be different. "People like Lupin…" She frowned, she was struggling to keep from being distracted by his tricks. If it were true, it would spark her interest despite the danger she was in; but it was not true. It couldn't be. What purpose would he serve by lying to her? He could be trying to soften her up so she would answer questions more readily. She eyed him warily as he slowly loosened his hold on her. She folded her arms against her chest. "You are still human," she insisted.

"Am I?" he asked quietly.

Hermione swallowed; the quiet, calm demeanor he was presenting to her scared her more than the enraged version. She did not want to believe him capable of this level of composure. "Remus—" she began.

"Will die because he cannot accept who he is," Fenrir growled.

"Lycanthropy will shorten anyone's lifespan," the witch argued.

"Open your eyes girl."

Hermione glared at the wolf for insulting her intelligence yet again, but she could not help noticing that he appeared to be quite healthy. He did not have the same haggard appearance her former professor had displayed any time she had ever seen him. The full moon had only passed a few days prior; Greyback did not look aged and worn at all. In fact, Hermione was struggling to even give him a proper age. He looked as healthy and robust as anyone. And her was not at all ugly; not like the descriptions she had heard and read about. Half of his dark hair was pulled back, while the lower half hung down in short waves to his broad shoulders. An infuriating grin was growing on his face as she tried to ignore what she was seeing. His square jaw was coated in even stubble, matching the dark color of his hair. His cheekbones were defined, but they were not uncomfortably prominent. He did not have the same stuck-up air about his features as many men. His nose was surprisingly straight, however. She half expected to be greeted with lumps and tweaks that came from repeated breakage; it was a nice nose, if such a thing could be said about any part of the savage wolf. She met his eyes once again; this was where his pride lay; not in his blood, or in his magic, but in the moon. The moon that, somehow, did not seem to be killing him.

"No," she protested, unwilling to believe what her eyes were telling her. "This is a trick! You are no different than anyone else!"

The werewolf sighed, his grin giving her a full view of his sharp teeth. He moved close to her again, burying his nose in her hair.

Hermione stiffened, angry tears spilling out of her eyes for the umpteenth time that day.

"No tricks, mate. Only nature." A soft laugh rumbled in his chest that Hermione felt as much as she heard.

"There is nothing natural about this!" she cried. "Stop that!" she yelled and tried to knee the wolf away as he inhaled her scent again.

He responded with nothing more than a chuckle, "Your fear is not a bad smell; but your anger…I can only think of a few things that could be better."

"I am sure they are just as revolting," Hermione glared, her voice cold.

She did not like the grin he shot at her. "Don't be jealous, pup. They all involve you as well. No need to get so upset," he practically purred.

Hermione closed her eyes, wishing he would just go away. It was a childish wish, but for a moment or two, she wanted to believe it. Trying to gather her courage, he thought of her friends. She could not just give up; they needed her. She forced herself to ignore the nausea building in her stomach.

"Fine," she said finally. "What makes you so different?"

The look on his face told her that he had been dying for her to ask.

"They fight against their very nature," Fenrir replied calmly. "They hate what they are and try so hard to suppress it that it kills them. They fight to remain pure human and ignore the rest of themselves. Lycanthropy does not shorten lifespans because of its nature; those who believe it is a curse die because they have tried their entire lives to kill a wolf. In this case, the wolf will always win."

Hermione tried to process this new information; what he was saying  _did_  make sense, but it couldn't be right.

"Different than you thought, mate?"

She nodded slowly before adding, "Don't call me that."

Fenrir curled his upper lip. "I will call you what I please, woman."

"Hermione," she insisted, placing her hands firmly on her hips.

Another infuriating grin spread across his face. "Mate," he countered firmly, moving close enough for the tip of his nose to brush against hers.

Hermione held her breath, waiting for the werewolf to doing something cruel and unwelcome, but he merely rested his forehead against hers. She allowed herself to breathe once more; Fenrir seemed content for the moment, giving her some time to collect her thoughts. It was a far from ideal situation, but she would take little mercies when they came. He was not hurting her; this was slightly more bearable. At least he was quiet now. She nearly started at her own thoughts. How could this proximity ever be bearable? She should have been disgusted, or repelled, or at the very least, upset! She wanted to be disturbed by the gesture.  _How dare he think he could touch her!_  He was the one in charge, however; her life seemed to be in his hands. She told herself that she did not like his presence, that it was terrifying and repulsive; but at most she was mildly uncomfortable, a realization that disturbed her far more than Fenrir Greyback's breath on her skin.

 _No. It is not true. There is nothing different about him._   _This is all just a trick._   _There's no such thing as mates._


	4. Some Truth

Hermione stood motionless, trying to sort out everything she was feeling as the werewolf stood calmly in front of her. He was quiet and still now; seemingly content. Unfortunately, the moment, whatever kind of respite it was, did not last long.

The witch willed her body to stiffen as Fenrir moved toward her once again. He was so close now. She could feel the heat radiating from his lips. Her heart began to pound, but to her horror, she realized that it was not from fear, but from anticipation.  _What kind of spell is this?_  It was not like any kind of love potion she had heard of before. It  _had_  to be some kind of magic. Greyback may have been deluded, but he was a powerful wizard, there was no denying that. He was crazy; steeped so far into his own lies that he was willing to take them into his own hands to make them a reality. She blatantly ignored the part of her mind that told her that he could be telling the truth; the same part that told her he was not exactly bad looking. A ridiculous thought.

Hermione's mind went blank as the heat from the werewolf's lips brushed hers. An unwelcome feeling coursed through her; not fear or disgust, she would have welcomed either of those; but of excitement. He was going to kiss her. Her mind practically buzzed with exhilaration for an instant after his lips met hers with a soft pressure. Then, the instant was over; her thoughts managed to catch up with her body and she reacted without thought to consequences. She just wanted him to stop touching her. She bit down as hard as she could on the werewolf's lower lip.

"Stop it!" she screamed. "Whatever you are doing to my head! Please. Please stop." She clutched her head in her hands, confused and sobbing. She did not see the enraged look in the werewolf's eyes as he wiped the blood from his wound off of his face.

Fenrir's loud growl broke her out of her own head. She did not bother to hide the tears that poured from her eyes as she met his. Her heart pounded in her chest, he was going to kill her. Her brain registered the sound of cracking bone, but she did not believe what was happening before her. She watched in horror as the werewolf's jaw extended, his teeth growing longer and sharper.

Then he spoke, his voice no longer human. If a wolf could speak, Hermione imagined it would make a very similar sound. It was a growl that formed words. She was not sure when the growl ended and speech began.

"You will respect me, mate," he spat, blood dripping from his lips as he pushed her roughly against the wall. "You will learn your place."

She knew now that he had been telling the truth; partly at any rate. He was  _very_  different from Lupin; from anything she had ever even heard of. What he was doing was not  _possible_ ; but there it was, right in front of her eyes.

"My  _place?!_ " she shouted at him, "I am not some floozy that can be ordered around! I will not be subservient to anyone! Especially not you. There's no such thing as mates! You are just like the rest of us, except you are mad!"

His snarl of rage silenced her ranting and she shrunk away from him.

"Do I  _look_  human, mate?"

"N—No." Hermione stammered, trembling.

"What makes you think I will  _act_  human?"

She knew he would be angry with her answer, but she was angry as well; and if he hadn't killed her yet, perhaps he really was not going to. "Remus."

The werewolf snorted. "He refuses to even claim his mate. He clings to humanity though it will eventually kill him. A sentiment  _I_  do not share."

* * *

Fenrir snarled. He wanted to claim her now; to clamp his jaws around her the nape of her neck and mix his scent with hers. He wanted to mark her so that no one else would touch her, but something told him not to. He had to be patient with her. Licking his mostly healed lip, he buried his nose in her hair once more. Her neck was so close, it was so tempting to just sink his teeth into her shoulder and be done with it. He settled for planting a kiss on the nape of her neck.

"You're lucky I heal quickly, pup," he growled softly, allowing his face to relax and return to its normal state. He did not want to scare her more than she was already; he was beginning to hate the scent of her fear. It was a scent that caused him immediate alarm and a great deal of stress. He could not alleviate her fear because it was he she was afraid of, and that was not likely to change any time soon. He sighed, he had to start somewhere. Perhaps she would be willing to listen now. He reluctantly pulled away from the trembling young woman, frowning when she dropped to the floor. He squatted beside her.

"You know, not all the bad things you have heard are true either. Contrary to popular belief, I do not eat children."

She stared up skeptically at him through tearful eyes. She was beautiful, even as she was now. "So the press lied?"

"Is that such a strange concept?" He grinned. "No," he admitted, his grin turning to a sober face, "They were muggle children. I did not know they were not strong enough to handle the change. It was an accident."

"You still attacked them!"

Fenrir grit his teeth, it would be a long time before she understood him, "The transition is easier when it occurs during childhood."

"It wasn't easier for Remus," she countered.

Fenrir growled irritably; she could not let the Lupin whelp go. "Did that mutt ever tell you how he became a werewolf?"

"No, but from the way he speaks of you, I imagine it was your fault."

"I bit him, yes." He quickly continued before she could interrupt him, "I bit him because his father had been persecuting my kind for his whole life. His father could not see past his prejudices. I think you know something of that. His father finally stopped hunting us after his son was changed."

The young woman bit her lip; Fenrir could tell she was carefully considering his words. He had hit the mark correctly with the reminder that some were as prejudiced against werewolves as they were against muggleborns. She had been teased about her heritage for years; perhaps she would sympathize.

"What about the missing children?"

"You cannot blame all the world's disappearances on me, mate," he skirted.

"I can if it is true you took them." She glared at him.

"I did not take them." He stared into her soft brown eyes, trusting her to find no lie in his. "I take runaways and urchins. Those with nowhere else to go."

"You prey upon the unfortunate and curse them!" she said vehemently. She was angry again; he much preferred this scent over the scent of fear.

"Yes. Cursed to a life of food, and shelter, and a family. Very horrible." He smirked. "It's more than most of them ever had."

She snorted. "Fenrir Greyback, the philanthropist. Nice try."

"I am certainly no saint; but, then again, who is?" He watched as she opened her mouth to respond; having a feeling he knew what she was about to say, he threatened, "If you say Remus Lupin one more time, I  _will_  bite you." She closed her mouth again and Fenrir smirked. She did not know that he could not turn her now, not without the aid of the moon. It was an effective threat, for now. She was a smart witch; she would figure it out eventually.

He rocked back onto the floor so he was sitting next to her; she seemed to be trying to work up the courage to speak again. He cocked his head to the side, curious to see what she would say next.

"Why—" she began hesitantly, "Why aren't you a Death Eater?" she managed, glancing at his bare arms.

He snorted, and regretted the sound when it made her jump. "As I said before, some are just as prejudiced against us as they are against you. Do you think the Dark Lord would make you a Death Eater, even if you wanted it?"

"No, I suppose not. Then, why do you follow him?"

Fenrir shook his head at the young woman. "He may hate us, but he is willing to give us our freedom for our aid. Your Order has given us no such offer, nor do I expect them to. We do not want to be hunted anymore. Both sides want us to lie down like pets, but one seeks to control us, while the other only wishes to unleash us."

"So you can kill who you please with no consequences?"

"I cannot hunt  _anything_  without bringing someone down to take off my head. If I kill a deer, someone screams that it will be her child next. I would simply like to hunt again," he replied calmly to her accusations. "I am not human, Hermione. I cannot be caged like this."

She stared at him. "You…You said my name."

"Did I, mate?" He flashed a grin at her as he smelled her anger return.

* * *

Hermione thought about the werewolf's explanation. It was logical, but was it true? She could not concentrate on trying to work it all out; not with him grinning at her like that. It reminded her so much of a wolf; it was a wonder how anyone could mistake him for anything but what he was. He did not seem all bad, however. He was certainly not gentle or mild, but he had not really hurt her at all. It could all be an act.  _But what if it isn't?_

Hermione squashed her thoughts as he reached for her face. She cringed as his hand closed the distance. His fingers gently cupped her chin and brought her face around to meet his. She followed the gentle pressure, but unbidden tears betrayed her fear. She did not want him to see how weak she was, but neither did she want to keep fighting only to be snarled at.  _He already knows you are not as strong as you pretend to be, Mione,_ she told herself. She truly began to cry as the werewolf wiped her tears away with a gentle thumb. His smirk was gone, replaced with a concerned stare.

"Don't cry, love," he said softly; a gesture that made her only cry harder.

"I am not  _yours_!" she cried, "I am not  _anyone's_."

Fenrir nodded slowly, his golden eyes never leaving hers. He surprised her when he stood, gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead and left without another word.

Fenrir was unsure what to do; for the first time in a long time, he was at a loss. The young woman was trying to be so independent, but she was crumbling. He had to fight the urge to wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her hair as she cried; that would only have made the problem worse. She didn't trust him. He let out a sigh that was far closer to a whine than he had intended. He needed to find Mensis; the younger wolf would have something to say about this.


	5. Friendly Advice

"It will take time, Alpha. She is not a starving child."

Fenrir snorted grumpily; he had never been very patient. He slouched in his seat, resting his jaw on a supporting hand. He tried not to growl irritably, but he struggled to keep the sound from escaping his throat.

The other wolf laughed, ignoring Fenrir's glare.

"I chased Catia for months before she would even agree to give me a shot." Mensis grinned, scratching at his short beard. It was well kempt, as was his short, dark hair. He had not kept his hair short until recently; Fenrir suspected the female had a hand in it. It suited him.

Fenrir rolled his eyes. "And you were as mopey as a dog the entire time. I was doing fine until she started crying."

"Merlin, Fenrir. Did you threaten to eat her?"

"No. She came up with that one on her own. She would have only glared at me for that, in any case; or shouted. She cannot seem to decide whether she is scared or angry. I had only just explained to her that I do not actually  _eat_  children." He struggled to keep from pouting as he thought about his latest moments with the girl; she was not cooperative at all, in fact, she was decidedly stubborn about her ideals.

"She's overwhelmed," Mensis replied, his green eyes still bright with mirth. "You did only kidnap her a few hours ago. Most people need some time to adjust."

Fenrir gave the man an unimpressed look. He was right; of course, he just needed to be patient. She would come around eventually. He could not blame her for fighting him; she was only doing what seemed natural to her. Her ferocity would be an asset for them both, one day. She would be a wonderful mother when that day came. His thoughts spurred by the entrance of Mensis' mate, half waddling with a tray of tea, he found himself imagining his wavy-haired mate swollen in pregnancy with his own cubs. He let out a contented sigh. The wait would be worth it.

"She's not just overwhelmed, Mensis," Catia scolded the man as she handed Fenrir a cup. "She's terrified."

Fenrir nodded in thanks and listened to the female give her explanation.

"She just found out that one of her enemies may not be everything she thought; which brings up enough doubts without having to worry about anything else. She has no defenses against you, Alpha, and so she is scared. She doesn't know what is going on, and will not understand until she accepts that you are different than she thought. I don't think she is angry with you. From what you have said, I think she is angry with herself. You are just the easiest target for her frustration. Her life has been turned upside-down in only a few hours, she needs time to sort it out herself. Her world was probably very black and white before; she has to adjust to any new shades of grey that come along. She won't be able to put some of them in either box, and I think that scares her."

Fenrir nodded thoughtfully. Giving her space had been a step in the right direction; being gentle without being overbearing would be hard for him, but he had to manage it somehow.  _Patience._

"She needs to know you aren't going to hurt her." Catia finished her speech and began to head back towards her bedchamber.

"Thank you, Catia," Fenrir said quietly. "You are looking well," he added.

She turned and smiled at him. "Thank you. I am starting to think there may be more than one little guy in there. It makes it hard to get around. Mensis worries about me too much, I am not quite as delicate as he thinks."

Fenrir noted Mensis' quiet growl at her words. He tried to fight the grin that came to his face, but it grew, regardless. The other wolf looked very put out as his mate waddled back to her bedchamber.

"She is tired a lot," Mensis said quietly. "I worry for a reason."

Fenrir nodded, he would be in the same position one day. "She is delighted, Mensis. I am happy for both of you," he replied; his words equally quiet.

"Thank you, Alpha." Mensis threw him a grin. "I think you will be just as cheerful sooner than you think. I am glad you have found her."

"I never thought she even existed." Fenrir mused. For most of his life, he had given in to the seemingly ever present fact that he would not have a mate at all. Luckily, very few dared to bring this fact up; those that did often did not live much longer. The urge to have a family was as natural to a wolf as the hunt was. "There are some things that I had taken for granted would never happen."

"You aren't that different from the rest of us; although, it's a wonder any of us find each other."

The smaller wolf was right, but he was not quite the same, either. "Merlin, Mensis. I just spent a good hour explaining how we are different than everyone thinks. Catia is right; she is very set in her ways."

"She knows what she has been taught, like all of us. Very few know the truth anymore."

"She refuses to see what is right in front of her. It is infuriating." Fenrir growled irritably.

"It will pass."

Fenrir flashed a grin at the other wolf. "Are you trying to console me, Mensis?"

The man barked a laugh. "If you wouldn't kill me for it, I might try. I cannot afford to have you angry with me; I have a family now."

Fenrir smirked. "I won't kill you, Mensis; though I may toss you around a bit. You are far too important." He rose to leave, feeling refreshed.

"If I did not know better, I would think you cared about me."

"I just don't want to bother looking for a new Beta; one that may try and kill me." He glanced at the other man. "I can trust you, Mensis, can't I?"

"Yes, sir. Always."

Fenrir nodded, satisfied. Mensis had braved a look into his eyes for his response. A gesture Fenrir appreciated; if it had been anyone else, they would have more than likely, gotten some extremity ripped off; but Mensis was happy where he was. He had no ambitions to lead the pack or usurp Fenrir in any way.

"Goodnight, Mensis."

"Goodnight, Alpha. Good luck." Mensis winked before turning to follow the female to bed.

Fenrir rolled his eyes good-naturedly. He scratched his stubble-covered chin and let out a sigh before turning back to his own chambers. He crossed the room between the two living spaces as quietly as he could, straining his ears to pick up any sort of sound that might help him when he entered. Nothing met his ears, even when he was right up against the doors. At least she was not crying any longer. He did not like that sound at all; it worried him, even when he knew the cause. He grunted a laugh; he was getting soft on her already.

Opening one of the large doors, he realized why he had not heard anything. The young woman was asleep in his bed, fitfully twitching under the blankets. He closed the door quietly behind him, taking a moment to stare at the witch. Her waves of brown hair were spread out across the pillows, looking very soft in the lamplight. He was glad she had fallen asleep, but it concerned him that she was tossing and turning, with her face contorted into a pained grimace. Tears leaked from her eyes and her lips moved in silent pleas. He suspected her nightmares had been going on for a time; she cried so easily. He had heard some talk of her from the Death Eaters, and she was always the strong one; but she was beginning to break. Fenrir was glad he had found her when he did; no one was allowed to break her but him.

The werewolf gave a resigned sigh; the woman was sleeping, however fitfully, in his bed. He tossed a few ideas around in his head before settling on the simplest. As quietly as he could, Fenrir walked over to the bed. He climbed in carefully to keep from disturbing her restless sleep. As tenderly as he ever did, he wrapped his arms around her shuddering form and buried his face in her neck. Her fear stung his nose, but the scent quieted as he pulled her toward him and she instantly settled against his large frame. He could feel the tension leave her body at his presence. He smiled into her hair; her body knew him even if her mind did not. He lay next to her for a time, merely enjoying the sensation of shared heat. Her fear had dissipated, leaving nothing but her own fragrance behind. He could not pinpoint exactly what it reminded him of; it was wild and free, like the forest after spring rain, or some sort of wildflower. He did not care for the names of flowers, but he knew the difference between those that would die if left unattended, and those that would thrive in an unpredictable environment. She was adaptable, she would survive. It took nearly all of his self-control to stay in the modest position he had chosen to hold her with. Her scent was overwhelmingly mouthwatering; as it should have been. It was easier to ignore his instincts when she was sleeping; but if she was not afraid of him when she was awake, he was not sure he would be able to control himself.

Fenrir waved off the lights before allowing himself to fall into a peaceful slumber.


	6. An Unwanted Welcome

Everything was warm; warm and comfortable. After being cold for so many nights in a row, the heat was such a wonderful feeling. It was soft too, so much better than the cot in that tent. Hermione was so comfortable, she did not even think about where she was or how she may have gotten there. She felt well rested for the first time in weeks; she could not remember waking up at all the night before. She did not even remember having her customary nightmares. They always changed, but there was one thing that remained the same, no matter the setting. Someone that she cared about was always in danger, and she was unable to save them. Nothing in the knowledge that she had acquired in school could help her, nothing in the books she had read could give her any insight. She merely had to stand and watch as her friends and family died from unknown spells and all manner of horrors she could not save them from. Sometimes the enemy was an unknown entity, but more often than not it was a Death Eater, or some other horrendous creature of the night. It had been a werewolf on more than one occasion.

_Werewolves._

Hermione's eyes shot open, and her brain kicked into overdrive. She was suddenly aware of a living, breathing presence behind her. In her bed. No. This wasn't her bed. She made to roll away, but was stopped by the strong arms that encircled her waist. She tried to wriggle out of their grip, but froze when a soft growl took up residence behind her.

_Greyback._

Hermione nearly began to cry. It had all been real; Fenrir Greyback had really taken her. She sprang away from him, her eyes wide. She stumbled forward off the bed, just barely catching herself from falling to the floor; his lack of resistance caught her off guard.

"You! You! The whole night!" Hermione struggled to form any kind of a coherent sentence. She was aghast. She could not believe he had violated her space like that! In her sleep! That was lower than she expected of him.

_No. I should have expected this,_ she scolded herself.  _He has no regard for my space or wishes at all!_

The werewolf propped his head up with an elbow and huffed, "You were sleeping in  _my_  bed, love. I was not about to sleep on the floor just because you're afraid of the big, bad wolf."

Her heart pounded as his eyes met hers in a mirthful gaze. There  _was_  something attractive about his golden eyes, not to mention the rest of him.  _Damn him. I was so comfortable, and warm._  She wrapped her arms around herself; she was much cooler now that his heat was not pressed against her back. She did not want to admit that she missed the sensation; but she did. She felt the loss of his powerful arms; before she had realized what was going on, she had felt  _safe_. She never felt safe anymore.  _No. There is nothing to this but hormones and-and physical desire._  She froze; did she truly find him worthy of desire? He was enticing, when he was not angry. She trembled at her own thoughts and squashed them where they stood.

"I'm not afraid of you!" she said, half-lying. She was not afraid of him, if he had not hurt her yet he was probably not going to; but she was afraid of her own reactions to him.

"You smell afraid," he said confidently, spurring her anger on.

"You can't know that! Stop. Touching. Me." she commanded. She did not want to know the extent of what she was feeling; she just had to stay away from him.

Fenrir's chuckle only continued to fuel her frustration, "I am not a dog, mate. Ordering me to sit will get you no more than unwanted wounds."

"I just might try it anyway," she seethed. He was so flippant about her captivity. He was so arrogant about the whole situation.  _If only I had my wand. I would_ _ **make**_ _him sit._  That thought cheered her immensely, a small grin flashed across her face when she thought of humiliating him like he was doing to her. He insisted he wasn't human, so perhaps he could be tamed. She frowned heavily when she caught him giving her his wolfish grin. His large teeth shone in the sunlight streaming through the window. Something about his grin caused her heart rate to skyrocket once again. She swallowed, trying to will herself to calm down.

"I feel like Little Red Riding Hood," she muttered irritably.

"Whatever brought you to that conclusion?"

"I just get to wait around for the woodcutter to come chop off the wolf's head," she smirked. She hoped it was true and that the Order would find her soon.

Fenrir chuckled again. "That story has changed a great deal since I first heard it."

"Oh?" she replied sharply, crossing her arms over her chest.

The werewolf shook his head at her display.

"When my mother told me the story, quite some time ago, now, the woodcutter had killed the grandmother and the wolf was the only thing standing between him and defenseless Red."

Hermione was not impressed with his summary; she was not even sure this man ever  _had_ a mother, the way he acted. She would not have been surprised if he had been raised by  _real_  wolves.

"You aren't biased at all," she said sarcastically, "what happened after that?"

"I'm still waiting on the ending," he replied, pointedly meeting her eyes before casually leaning back onto his pillow.

Hermione let out an indignant snort, he was so relaxed! How odious! The nerve of him, treating her like some floozy! Without a backwards glance, Hermione stalked toward the bathroom. Before closing the door behind her, she turned once again to the lazy wolf.

"You  _are_  going to stay out here?" she demanded.

Fenrir let out a huff at her simple question, "Yes, mate."

* * *

Fenrir chuckled as the young woman slammed the door in annoyance. She may not have been quite close to warming up to him, but she was no longer so afraid. Some of the stunned stares she had given him with her bright doe eyes made him immensely curious about what was going on in her head. He had thought, if only for an instant, that he had seen a flash of something new in her eyes; he wished he had been closer so that he could have smelled it on her. He could have sworn he had seen a flicker of desire amongst her frowns and tearful glares.

He cringed when the sound of quiet sobs reached his ears; nearly drowned out by the crashing of water on stone. For some reason, she did not want him to know how rattled she was. Perhaps she did not want him to think she was weak, but there seemed to be more to it than that. Perhaps she was closer to breaking than he thought. That thought worried him more than he would have liked to admit; what had caused her to lose her nerve? It had not been him; she had been alone when he had found her; alone and upset. It had to have been one of those  _boys_. Probably that Weasley whelp; he could not even take care of himself, how could he take care of her too? A growl rumbled in his throat; no one was allowed to make her cry; he could not stand her tears.

Fenrir sighed. Patience was perhaps the answer once again. Maybe if he gave her some space…Yes, he would give her some time alone. He grunted as he heaved his muscled body out of bed; there were many things for him to do today. He dressed quickly and was gone before she had even gotten into the shower.

He strode down the warm hall and could not help a glance at the empty rooms; rooms that would one day belong to his cubs. He no longer looked at them sadly, but instead with longing and anticipation. It would be some time before the day she would be ready for a family; but it was in his sights now. No longer was a family an unattainable dream, only to be seen in glimpses of others' lives.

"Morning, Alpha," Catia greeted him as he passed through the sitting room that joined the two wings that were their chambers together.

He nodded politely and continued walking, but paused when a thought struck him. Perhaps his mate would like some company.

"Catia."

"Yes, Alpha?"

"If she decides to ever come out of there, will you show her around and answer her questions?"

The female nodded, "Of course."

Satisfied, Fenrir gave her a nod of approval. "Don't wear yourself out. I don't want to fight your mate if it ever came back to me." He sent a grin to the female.

"Yes, Alpha." Catia shyly returned the gesture.

Fenrir left the woman to herself and walked out. He had been gone snatching for several weeks, he needed to check on the pack. His absence often caused some insurrection; he needed to stamp it out before it turned into a bloodbath.

The halls were rather empty at this time of the morning. Those who had jobs outside the castle had left for their respective positions. There were a few who worked outside the safety of the walls; those who could pass as normal witches and wizards often branched out to the rest of the wizarding world. Those who could not or did not want to had their own duties at home. They were quite self-sustaining. There were teachers for most ages; once they turned eleven they were sent out to the magical boarding schools around Europe. Most of the children were not born wolves, and so were allowed in any school they chose. Some were less tolerated due to their heritage, and were only accepted to certain schools, and only under extraneous circumstances. It irked him that Dumbledore had invited the Lupin whelp to Hogwarts, when many of his fellows had been denied that opportunity. It was unfortunate that he was not able to kill the old codger himself. The werewolves were better off without his prejudice in the world. He growled quietly to himself just thinking about the man. There were many things he had to do that day, and he would tackle them all one at a time.

* * *

Hermione let her tears flow as soon as she had flipped the water on. She hoped he would not be able to hear her distress over the sound. If he sensed her weakness, she was finished. He would move in to break her if he knew how close to cracking she actually was. She was more afraid of breaking than of the werewolf himself. If she was being honest with herself, she had slept better here than she had in a long time. Her stress level had not decreased, but she was no longer constantly being demeaned by Ron. He did not do it on purpose, but he always managed to hurt her feelings somehow. Most recently he had taken up Snape's old mantra of 'Know it All". He did not use that exact wording, but she knew it was implied. What he did not realize is how deep those words cut her. She had strived her entire time at Hogwarts just to keep up with the non-academic realm of magic, but was met with blocks at every turn. Everyone assumed that she knew everything because she was well read, but that was far from true. Books were far from accurate; a truth she was learning quickly. Books did not hold all the answers, and sometimes were downright wrong. She wondered what else she had learned about the wizarding world through reading that was incorrect as well. Werewolves were certainly not all that they appeared to be; how much of her knowledge was made up of lies?

Hermione stepped into the tile shower, allowing the hot water to flow over her body; trying to relax under the stream. She wanted to keep the same unperturbed feeling that she had awoken with, but without the horrifying connotation that she had been comfortable with his presence; without the thought that when he was holding her, her nightmares seemed to disappear. She had come to grips with the fact that werewolves were different than she had been taught, perhaps even vastly so, but she refused to believe in this mate nonsense. There was no such thing as mates; she had no destiny that was tied to the savage werewolf. He may have been attracted to her, but there was nothing special about that; he was nothing more than a hedonistic lecher, or he was deluded; she was not sure which one was worse. She tried to hold onto her view of the werewolf as being savage and cruel, but she could not shake the fact that she had seen that there might be more to him than that. A small part of her mind wanted to believe him, or maybe it was her heart that told her it was not entirely untrue; either way, she felt as though her grip on reality was starting to fade. He was getting to her. She had not  _wanted_  to leave his arms that morning. It  _had_  to be some sort of trick! She could not fall for it; she had a job to do. The Order needed her. Harry needed her.

_I have to get out of here._


	7. The Cracking of Stone

_I have to get out. Harry needs my help._

Hermione frowned at the pile of dirty clothes on the floor as she stepped out of the shower. She did not have anything else to wear, and she was  _not_  going to stoop to wearing the werewolf's clothes just so she could have something clean. It seemed to her as though everything he touched was dirty. She did not want to have anything to do with him.

She found herself wishing she had her trunk. It would have been nice to have her clothes with her.  _I can't think like this; I have to escape. I am not staying._  Somehow, she would get out. He couldn't really follow her scent; he had merely made that up to scare her. She grudgingly slipped on her wrinkled clothes and rubbed her sopping hair with a towel. She carefully folded up the towel and set it on the counter before walking towards the door. She hesitated as she reached for the knob; she did not want to have another encounter with the werewolf. Taking a deep breath, she turned the brass knob and pulled open the door.

The room on the other side was gloriously empty. Fenrir had left. She felt oddly disappointed that he had, but she was also immensely grateful. She needed to sort through everything; and find a way to escape. She should not  _miss_  his presence; she had to get out before she fell deeper into whatever spell he had over her. Whatever he was doing seemed to be taking hold of her, she tried to fight it, but seemed to be sucked in more each passing hour. She strode to the wide double doors and nearly squealed with delight to find them unlocked.

Hermione found herself in a hallway with several doors. It reminded her of a simple bedroom hall; the other end of the hall opened up into another room. More warm colors and dark wood greeted her as she entered the room at the far end of the hallway. The presence of a decently sized kitchen and sitting room surprised her. It was like a little house inside the castle.  _Fit for a family_. Her throat tightened; she was not sure whether it was from fear and disgust or the unknown sensation that toiled in her stomach. She slowly moved toward the door that rested in what looked like a small entry way. Would this door be locked instead? What if her prison had only been expanded to this space? There was still no way to climb out; she was too many stories above the ground.

Her eyes widened when the knob turned and the door opened easily. She could not help the grin that came to her face at her luck; how could he overlook the doors? She walked into another sitting room; it reminded her of the common rooms at Hogwarts, if a little more homey feeling. A woman was sitting on one of the sofas with a book in her hand. She turned to face Hermione and spoke.

"Ah, Mistress. There you are."

Hermione started at the address. She looked around and found no one else that the woman could have been speaking to. She turned back to the woman, confusion evident over her entire face.

"Everyone has a title here, Mistress. If you would like me to call you by another name, you will have to tell me." The woman smiled in a knowing way. "I am Catia."

"Hermione," the wavy haired witch replied plainly.  _Here? Where is here? Who is everyone?_  A million different questions flooded through her mind. After a moment, she realized that she had been standing, her mouth open slightly, with a stunned look on her face.

Catia gave her a warm smile. "I am here to help you today."

"You mean watch me," Hermione muttered under her breath; so much for overlooking her. He had planned this. He knew she would leave as quickly as she could.

The woman laughed quietly and stood; she took a moment to steady herself.

Hermione took the moment to look over her new companion; she was very pregnant and it took her a few seconds to become stable on her feet. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a braid and her blue eyes seemed to spread a glow around her heart shaped face. She looked so very happy; her full lips were turned upward in a perpetual smile.

"So, you're a werewolf too?"

"Yes, does that frighten you?" she replied, her bright eyes shone with a delight that was unrelated to their conversation.

Hermione bit her lip, "No. You don't scare me."

"I am not much of a threat at the moment."

Catia placed a hand on her swollen belly and smiled.

Hermione was not sure what to think of the woman in front of her. She was perhaps only a few years older than herself. She seemed pleasant enough, but what if it was only a facade? The werewolves that followed Fenrir had just as savage a reputation as the man himself. She was beginning to wonder how many of the stories were true. What if none of them were true? What if  _everything_  she had read was a lie? Doubt had crept in like a thief. Once she realized it was there, it was too late to dispel it without proof. She wanted to hold onto the black and white world she had always known. She needed that world; it kept everything in order. It made sense to her. That world had no instinct, no destiny, only action and consequence. This new world of grey scared her; she refused to believe in its existence.

"I don't trust you," Hermione said, not bothering to keep the hostility out of her voice.

"I know. I did not trust anyone for a long time. I was a lot like you a few years ago," the woman smiled fondly.

She would listen to what Catia had to say, but she would not believe anything she said just because she was being nice to her.

"What happened?"

The young woman sat back down and indicated that Hermione should do the same. The witch eyed the werewolf cautiously and sat stiffly in a nearby armchair.

"It all started with a handsome man who helped me with my bags one day. I was shopping at Diagon Alley and had picked up more than I should have. He offered to help me carry my packages to the Leaky Cauldron. His name was Mensis. He was sweet, and I accepted. It was too late for dinner when we arrived, but he bought me dessert. After that, we met a few times for coffee and then for dinner. I liked him, but I thought things were moving too quickly. He started to get slightly overbearing and it felt wrong. I tried to talk to him about it, but he just brushed it off. He followed me home one day; I was terrified. I confronted him; I screamed at him. I was completely distraught. He did leave me alone after that, though; or I thought he did. I knew he was never far from me, and that was a feeling I did not know how to deal with."

"Very romantic." Hermione said sarcastically.

"Oh, Mistress," Catia laughed, "I was scared out of my mind. He stalked me as efficiently as he stalks prey. He's a wolf; that will never change."

"What did change?" She could not see how this could be the story that ended with a young woman delighted to be carrying that man's children. He had stalked her; that sounded about as healthy as kidnapping…  _No. This is not right_.  _I am nothing like this woman_.

"One night I decided to walk home from Diagon Alley; a foolish decision on my part. My arms were full and some muggles caught me by surprise. They were a nasty bunch, I reached for my wand, but Mensis was faster. As soon as I saw him I ran. I was as afraid of him as I was of the men; perhaps even more. I did not need to stay for the fight. The sounds that echoed down the street…I had never heard anything like it. The screams and the snarls…I wondered if he was an animagus; the idea that he was a werewolf never even crossed my mind. I ran until I calmed down enough to remember that I could apparate.

Hermione stared at the woman. Any witch that had grown up in the magical world would have apparated straight away.

Catia smiled, "Yes. I am muggleborn."

"I would not have guessed."

"Blood does not matter here; it is a foolish notion that blood makes anyone better than anyone else," she elaborated before continuing her story. "I did not walk anywhere by myself again. He stayed at a distance, only interfering when he thought I was in danger. This went on for a few months. I saw him only a handful of times, but he was always nearby."

"That's awful!" Hermione exclaimed. "That—that's  _wrong_."

"That was not the worst of it." The woman smiled sadly, "I had gone camping with some friends; I knew that I should not have gone; I knew that he would follow, but I was feeling reckless. I went." She paused and grimaced. "We stayed longer than we meant to, we were still out there when the moon rose, full and bright, over the hills. It was beautiful. All thoughts of the bad things that had happened were gone, but only for a moment. Then there was the unmistakable cry of a werewolf nearby. I felt the pull of the call; I knew it was him. I can't explain how I knew that, but I could feel it. I had put my friends in danger, just by being there. I begged them to run, but they would not leave me. Another howl echoed off the hills and I did the only thing that seemed right. I ran, but I ran toward the sound. I could not let him hurt them. I was all he wanted. He ran toward me, the biggest wolf I had ever seen. I was so afraid; I fell down and could not stand back up. He came up to me and rubbed his head against my cheek, before he bit my shoulder. I screamed and he let go. He looked so sad; he whined and ran off into the woods. He was gone by the time my friends found me."

"I was so angry. I think he knew, because I did not see him until the next full moon. I had taken my wolfsbane and was harmlessly curled up in my bed. I am not sure how he had gotten in, but he did. He lay with me the whole night, whimpering apologies. I did not have the energy to fight him. After the night was over I let him explain what had happened. I cried, and then he left. He came back every Moonstime after that. He stayed longer each time; and each time I fought the call. Everything in me ached to be near him, and I think he knew it. He could not stay away; for all my pleas and screams and ranting, he always came back."

"That's not much of a payment for what he did to you."

"It wasn't enough, but I started to understand him. One night he came early, I was concentrating so hard on fighting his advances that I forgot to take my potion. I did not hurt anyone that night, except perhaps my own pride. I was not used to the flood of instincts that tormented my head as I transformed. I was ruled by impulse."

"I don't understand."

Catia gave her a sympathetic look that hovered on also being sheepish, "There was a very large male in the room, Hermione; the same one that bit me; the one that called to me."

"Then you—" Hermione turned up her nose; this was one part of the story she  _could_  believe. Werewolves were nothing but animals when they transformed; they felt no remorse or had any decency at all.

"No. He wouldn't do it. He told me later that it took every ounce of control he had. He did nothing but growl from the corner that night. It was enough that I did not approach him. I am glad I did not see through what he was doing, otherwise we both would have regretted that night. As of that night, I trusted him. I was not ready for the pack; not by any means, but he came by more often after that."

"But that's not normal! That is not how life works! I have not been called or bitten or mated or whatever you want to call it! I was kidnapped!" She refused to give in to what the other woman was saying. Werewolves had no control over themselves when they were turned. _This is all_ _ **wrong**_.

Catia smiled sadly, "I told you my story so you will know what I mean when I say, Fenrir will not be as gentle with you as Mensis was with me. It is not in his nature, or yours."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest before realizing what the other woman had said.  _Not as gentle?! He could have killed her!_

"You are much stronger than I was, and the Alpha is not patient. He never has been."

"So that's it, then? I get no choice? I am doomed to be his—his— plaything?!"

Catia shook her head, the girl still did not understand. "We can't choose our mates, Hermione, but they are never the wrong ones. You can't run, he will find you, and he will be angry."

"So I should just give in?!" What on earth was the woman trying to tell her? She could not tell if Catia was trying to warn her or comfort her.

"No." Catia shook her head, "He wants a fight. He wants to know if you are strong enough to handle him."

"Why should I give him the satisfaction?!"  _To handle him?!_   _What on earth did that mean?!_  No, she decided she did not want to know.

"Because if you don't, you might find yourself in a situation like mine, only he will not hesitate like my mate. Try not to make him angry."

Hermione swallowed. How had this become so complicated? Her heart pounded in her chest with all this new information. She just wanted to be normal; that was all she ever wanted; to fit in. She had never fit anywhere; she had done well with Harry and Ron, but often felt a little alone even with them. They were her friends, but they often took each other's side over hers.

"I just want to be normal," she choked. "I don't want to stand out; I don't want to belong to anyone; I just want to be  _me_."

"You don't belong to anyone, Mistress. No one owns you, not even your mate. Not unless you allow them to, which I do not recommend. Fenrir does not want ownership of you; his position demands respect, and you have yet to show him any. My mother always told me that no one is normal; you will always stand out, because you are unique."

"No. I—I can't be— I love Ron!"

"Tell me about this Ron," Catia urged her.

"He's one of my best friends," Hermione began. "We went to school together and have always worked through our differences. He is funny, and loyal,"  _Though not always to me_ , "and a bit thick sometimes." She laughed. "He—" she choked on her own words as they left her mouth, "—he is always there for me." Looking into the werewolf's eyes, Hermione knew that she had been caught in her lie. She wanted it to be true, she wished it were true, but it wasn't. He had not always been there for her. He had hurt her more times than she cared to remember.

"Does he respect you?"

"Do you mean-?" She did not want to think about the answer to the question. She knew the answer without the need for the werewolf's elaboration.

"It is a simple question. You know the answer. You don't have to tell me, but you should think about it."

Hermione burst into tears. "I—I don't understand. I—I thought. I love him."

"You can love your friends, Mistress. But you can't have a relationship without respect," Catia said soothingly.

Hermione nodded, " _He_  does not respect me either!"

"I think you will be surprised. You could try giving him some first."

Hermione began to fume through her tears. "No. I will not." She would not give Fenrir any respect; he showed her none and deserved none in return. He was horrid, and had no regard for her. That small part of her that seemed to be growing larger every day tried to refute her; it said that he cared for her in some way, even if she didn't understand how.

"I have warned you, and there is no more I can do. Would you like to see your new home?" The werewolf laughed at the glare Hermione sent her, "The castle, then."

She eyed the woman skeptically, "Is that a good idea?"

Catia nodded, "I have to give birth sometime, and I'd rather it be before the next Moonstime."

Hermione started, "It's soon?" She could not be here when the moon came; she had to be gone.

Catia shook her head, "Not for a few weeks. But if I'd rather have my cub be a few weeks old by then." She smiled.

 _Cubs? What an odd way to think about it._  It made sense, when she thought about it, they were werewolves. Remus was always worried he would pass on his lycanthropy to any children he had; but Hermione wondered if it was that simple. They had to call them cubs for a reason, right?

"Cub?"

Catia nodded, "Cub, baby, there is not really a difference. Semantics."

The woman did not answer her question the way she wanted, but in Catia's defense, her query had not been very clear.

"I think a walk will be good." Hermione nodded. If she knew the castle, it could be easier to find a way out.

"This way."

* * *

Fenrir looked around the room, a silent snarl contorting his features. There were too many stares going around the small area. There had been too many 'accidental' instances of eye contact. He knew who the instigator was, but until he truly did something out of line, he would have to stay. He could not leave for so long again; things would get out of hand very quickly.

A large wolf stepped forward, meeting Fenrir's eyes in an unmistakable challenge. "You're losing your touch, Fenrir," the foolish wolf growled.

Fenrir smirked; a low, excited growl building in his throat. The other wolf may have been comparable in size, but Fenrir knew him; he was not as quick as he could be. The young wolf would possibly die tonight, only time would tell. He had certainly earned himself a severe beating. No one challenged him; they should all know better by now. They were young and arrogant; but had taken it too far this time. They would learn their place again. He had enough built up frustration that toying with the cocky wolf would be easy; not killing him quickly would be the hard part. He had been itching for a fight and now was as good a time as any.

The large man lunged, his teeth bared. Fenrir was quicker and met his challenge, sinking his fangs into his opponent's shoulder. He tore out a large chunk of flesh and spat it onto the floor as the other wolf let out a surprised yelp. The noise coming from the surrounding males increased, but Fenrir ignored it; having eyes only for those that would challenge him. The Alpha licked the fresh blood that dripped down his lips from his assault. He grinned, the thick crimson liquid streaming down his jaw. The other wolf grimaced but continued his advance. He had learned something from his first mistake, at least; he had to be faster.

Fenrir snarled when the other wolf's claws raked across his face. He turned, eyes blazing; but with a smirk still on his face. The other wolf thought he had gotten an advantage; a mistake he should have known not to make. No one ever had an advantage over the Alpha; he was at the top for a reason. He body slammed into the younger wolf, nearly knocking him off his feet. His claws found the other wolf's neck and squeezed. He threw his opponent to the ground. "Losing my touch, whelp?" Fenrir sneered, taunting the wolf to get back up and fight again. He did not disappoint.

The mutt struck out at him again, hitting Fenrir squarely in the chest.

The Alpha laughed; a sound that was more growl than anything else. "Is that all you have left?"

He saw a light flash in the challenger's eyes and grinned. He was truly angry now. Whelps made mistakes when they were angry. He charged once more at Fenrir, but missed this time.

Fenrir kneed him in the chest before clamping his jaws down on the back of his neck as one would have done to a cub or a rather feisty mate.

A dark chuckle floated around the crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle. Humiliation was the best tool a wolf had to keep his pack in line; loyalty only went so far with some. Death was a good incentive as well, but that was often a last resort.

The aggressive wolf struggled against Fenrir's iron hold. Fenrir dropped the whelp and snarled as one of the other wolf's claws struck dangerously high up his thigh.

"Is that how it is?" Fenrir sneered as the other wolf tried to regain his composure.

"The mateless Alpha. What need have you of your pride? That chit you brought home is nothing but a whore."

Then again, death brought a message home quite clearly. Fenrir did not hesitate. He leapt onto the other wolf and ripped into his chest with claw and fang equally. The satisfying crunch of bone was barely audible over the sound of the man's yelping screams. Fenrir did not stop his assault until the whelp stopped screaming. He stood over the twitching carcass, thick, dark, hot blood dripping down his face onto his chest. A hush fell over the room.

"Does anyone else have anything they want to say!?" he roared. "If I hear of anyone speaking badly of my mate, I will do the same to them. She is your Mistress. You will treat her with the respect she is due." He was satisfied with the silence and the downcast eyes that permeated the room. He stalked out of the hall, absent-mindedly licking the blood from his lips.

His keen ears picked up the sound of a female's voice further down the hall. His blood ran hot from the fight, and he wanted his mate at his side.

* * *

Hermione turned at the sound of footsteps, coming face to face with the disheveled Alpha. His golden eyes blazed, but that was normal; the rest of him however, drove Hermione to instant horror. She gasped at the sight that greeted her. Fenrir was covered in sweat and blood; the red liquid dripped down his chin and onto his bare, broad chest. He was sporting several bruises and something had clawed at his face. His chest heaved; his very bare, very muscular chest moved in and out with his panting. His eyes were the only part of the glare she knew was on his face that were truly visible underneath the sweat-soaked strands of hair that had fallen loose from their tie. He had been fighting; and by the amount of blood she saw, he had likely killed whoever he had fought. She instinctively shrunk away from him, but he seemed to ignore her for the moment.

He bared his fangs at the pregnant woman. Hermione shook her head when Catia glanced at her. She would not leave her alone with him; not when he was like this. He looked so angry; she could not possibly be safe with him. Fenrir must have noticed Catia's hesitation because an instant later he directed an enraged snarl at the woman. Hermione trembled at the sound, shrinking against the wall, as Catia scampered off as quickly as her size would allow.

He growled quietly and turned to move past her. He did not truly look any larger than he had before; but his presence seemed to have grown since that morning.

She stood still, not sure whether she was meant to follow or not. Her question was answered when his bloodstained hand grabbed ahold of her arm and pulled her roughly alongside him.

"Stop it! I can walk you know!" How dare he manhandle her! She just wanted him to leave her alone, and he always seemed to find her when he was angry.

He coarsely threw her arm back to her, flashing his cruel teeth in her direction. "Then walk," he snarled.

"Why?" She crossed her arms and tried not to hold her breath.  _Great time to pick a fight, Mione. Yell at the angry werewolf._

If he did not kill her for this, he probably never would.

* * *

Anger wafted off his mate and filled Fenrir's nostrils.  _Yes. This is a much better smell._  The scent of fear was still present, but it seemed to lessen with every hour that went by. Now she was merely defiant.

He sneered, showing her his sharp, bloodstained teeth. Her eyes widened and she swallowed audibly, but she held her ground.

"Because I will drag you if you don't." He reached for her once again. She had so many questions; why could she not accept that she did not know everything and move on?

She immediately jumped forward, and began to stalk down the hall. He followed her, smirking internally. He could not bring the expression to his face; his wounds were still fresh and raw. Contrary to what some believed, he was not immune to pain.

"Where do you think you're going?" he snarled when his mate turned the wrong way down a hall.

"I'm. Walking." She seethed. "That's what you said. Walk."

He growled loudly at her, baring his blood soaked fangs again. She knew he was angry and continued to defy him; the day with the female had been good for her. She had regained some of her spirit.

"You cannot expect me to know the way back."

"I expect you to know when to follow." The growl never ceased through his speech. She had not chosen the healthiest time to pick a fight. She gave him a harsh glare but remained silent; a wise choice.

Fenrir grunted and turned the other way. He did not bother to glance back at his mate to see if she was following. After a moment, he heard her reluctant footsteps behind him. Her scent went ahead of her, and he struggled not to jump on her in that moment. Her anger changed her warm, flowered scent into a raging forest fire. Finally, if only for a moment, her fear was gone and he could smell her. It was just like it had been the previous night, but so much stronger and that much more impossible to resist. He could not say what exactly it reminded him of, but that did not matter to him. He grit his teeth and let out a soft, frustrated growl.

Her footsteps stopped. Fenrir sighed and stopped as well. He did not turn to face her, but neither did he cease his growling. If he turned around and saw her…

"I'm doing what you want! Why can't you just leave me alone?" She shouted angrily. Her voice sounded choked and he knew more tears were not far away.

Forsaking the warnings in his head, he spun around and swiftly pinned her against the wall. Her scent hit him full on and he nearly bit her right then and there. He caught himself with his teeth against the nape of her neck, his body pressing hers firmly to the wall. He did nothing but growl into her soft neck for a moment; but once he had regained control of his senses, he planted a kiss on the same spot his teeth had been moments before. Her scent was overwhelming; it threatened to consume his thoughts and shatter what was left of his self-control.

"What is wrong with you?!" She cried.

"If you could smell me the same way I can smell you, you would understand," he growled. Gods, she was the most luscious thing he had ever smelled. How he could ever wait for her to change her mind would be quite the puzzle.

"I will never understand you."

"Is that a challenge?" Fenrir snarled. "Do not tempt me, Pup. I already have half a mind to bite you; if you push me, I just might do it." He bared his fangs at her, sufficiently making his point.

She clamped her mouth shut at his words, but opened it again seconds later. "Fine. Can we go, then?"

He stared at her, the urge to nuzzle her growing stronger. She was learning that anger was better than fear, whether she realized it or not. The less afraid she was, the less irritable he felt.

Fenrir let out a soft grunt and left another bloody kiss on her neck before turning toward his quarters.

She followed without a fuss this time.

He was surprised when she had followed him into the washroom, but then remembered that he had left a bit of a mess on her neck. With only the smallest protest, he lifted her gently onto the counter and gently wiped the dried blood from her neck and shoulder with a wet towel.

"I do not fight because I want to kill," he said softly as he continued to free her skin of the other wolf's blood. He did enjoy it, that much was true, but he would be equally as happy if he did not have to fight any challengers. She did not like that he had been fighting. He was not sure what about it she struggled with, but perhaps she was not sure herself.

She avoided looking at his face while he cleaned her up; she was clearly upset, and he did not blame her. He needed to fix this, he wanted her to smile.

"Then why do you fight?" she asked, her voice choked.

"I know you won't believe me; but we  _are_  wolves, Hermione. There is a pack order, and some like to test that order. Some push things too far."

"You don't have to kill them," she sniffed quietly, tears falling from her downcast eyes.

"I—" he did not have a good response for her, "I know. I had not intended on killing tonight. He would have lived, but—" he gently brought her chin up so she would look at his face, "he challenged more than just me today."

"Who else is there to—" her eyes widened in recognition, "You—you killed him, for me?"

She was conflicted, he could smell the confusion that suddenly overpowered all her other emotions. He let out a soft whine as she began to cry again. He felt odd; he had been a pup the last time he had made such a sound. He wanted her to trust him, to be comforted by his presence.

He wanted her to be happy. He would have given her anything she asked for; anything that was within his power to give; but the one thing she had asked, he was not strong enough to give her. He could not leave her be; he could not stay away. He almost wished that he could; almost. Any hint of her scent and he needed to be near her. He knew part of it was purely the instinct to protect. She was unclaimed, and that made her vulnerable; but he found that he wanted to be near her, merely for the sake of proximity. He wanted to  _know_  her; his beautiful doe-eyed mate that had literally run straight into him. He wanted to be able to hold her without her shouting or screaming or being  _afraid._  He hated her fear; it stung his nose and created an anxiety in him that he did not know was possible.

He turned his attention to his own blood-smeared chest and arms, watching her out of the corner of his eye. He could smell her all over the towel that he had picked up off the counter; she must have dried with it after her shower. He  _had_  to be patient with her. He had to be gentle; gentleness was such a foreign concept to him, he was unsure if he truly remembered what it was.  _What do I do?_  He was at a loss once more; she was sobbing, and he was covered in another's blood.  _First off, you need to stop moping and get yourself cleaned up._  He rubbed his eyes tiredly and continued to wipe the blood away. He immediately turned to her when she spoke again.

"My clothes are ruined," she cried, sniffing with every other word, her eyes downcast once again.

He pulled up her chin to stare into her eyes, giving her a respect she did not understand yet. "You can have more clothes, love," he said softly.

"Please," she pleaded, "please s—stop. Just stay away from me."

His eyes threatened to fill with the unfamiliar sensation of tears, "I—I can't," he whined. It was his turn to look away; he could not give her what she requested and was as close to ashamed as her had ever been. He never thought he would be unable to provide something for his mate; it cut him to the core that she was so afraid of him, and he had no one to blame but himself. He would not change; he could not; but perhaps he could learn to be gentle with her. She was so brittle and delicate; he had no other option. One day she would be strong again, but today was not that day. He reached out for her and cringed when she shied away. He knew that if she let him hold her she would feel better, but he did not think she would allow it.

"You can't or you won't?!" she cried, her brown eyes begging for an answer.

"I can't," he whispered; "I can't." he repeated; he wished he was strong enough to tell her why; but his heart was so hard, it would be incredibly painful to open it up again. He had kept it locked tight for so long, even the small truth he was trying to divulge seemed to rip into his soul. He repeated his answer again; it was the only thing keeping him from telling her everything. He turned away from her stunned eyes and clenched his fists; he could not remember a time when he had felt so torn before. He could not tell her what she wanted to know; he had never needed to explain himself before. He felt that his actions always spoke for themselves; but she did not understand. Maybe he had been too rough with her; but he had always worn his emotions on his sleeve, that would never change. Everyone knew exactly what he was feeling when they saw him, and that kept the pack in line and happy. He did not understand why she did not seem to even fathom his frustrations.

"Why?"

"I have already told you," he growled. She would never understand as long as she refused to believe; as long as she refused to trust him.

Fenrir wiped the rest of the blood from his arms and headed towards the door. He paused at the doorframe, he had to show her he cared enough to try and grant her wish.

Giving a sigh and without turning to see her face, he gave her a promise, "I will leave you alone tonight. I will not enter the room unless you ask me."

He left quickly, grabbing some clean clothes on the way out. He hoped it would be enough to show her that he was sorry.


	8. A Brief Respite

Hermione sat on the counter, sobbing. She had pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, struggling to sort through what had just occurred. If she had understood the werewolf properly, he had killed a man for simply threatening her. Why would he have done that unless he cared, in his own twisted way?

He had done horrible things to her, but none of them stood out in her mind when she thought of him. He was a werewolf, she expected nothing different. What  _was_  different was what he had done when she had called him out on his actions. He had not argued or fought, he simply agreed with her. He was not remorseful, but neither was he happy about what he had done. Granted, he had not shown any sort of repentance until she had shown displeasure in his actions. That whine…she had wanted to reach out to him when the pained sound reached her ears. She knew it was as close to an apology as she would ever receive from him. He was not sorry he had killed a man, he was only sorry that he had hurt her; and somehow, that felt like it should be enough. It was not good; it was not normal; but it felt right. Did he really care that much about how she felt? He had not seemed to before.

Maybe he really did care for her. He had even promised to leave her alone, if only for the night. She marked his words very carefully, he had said tonight, and she knew he would be back in the morning. He would always come back, if Catia's story was to be believed. What did he mean he couldn't stay away? She knew that she had an answer, but it was not the answer she wanted. She did not want to be different. She did not want to be tied to the werewolf, or so she told herself.

Hermione had watched as he cleaned the blood off of his muscled torso. He was strong; he could protect her if he truly wanted to.  _Protect me from what? I don't need protection, I need to get out_. She  _had_  to get out, before she was sucked any further into whatever spell he had cast. It was not a real spell; it did not come from wands, but it was magical. Whatever drew her to him, it was some sort of curse, or—or something else. It was becoming harder to deny what he had been telling her. She felt pulled to him and she could not explain it. She did not want to feel like this, but there was nothing she could do about it; she had tried. She had nothing left but to give in.

_No! I can't think this way! There has to be something else, something I am missing. This is nothing but a trick!_

Hermione continued to sob; how had things become so complicated? She once again thought back to the scene that had just taken place. She could not help but stare at the werewolf when he had stood in front of her. His muscles seemed to ripple in the soft light, and she had felt the horrifying urge to reach out and touch him; and in that moment when he had shown her some courtesy, she had wanted to comfort him. She had wanted him to kiss her; to wrap his strong arms around her and hold her. She  _hated_  that she wanted it, but she could no longer deny the longing that had crept into her mind. Even now, she fought the urge to follow him.

"No. This isn't  _real_. This is a trick. It can't be real," she cried.  _The whole thing is just impossible_. Deep down, she  _knew_  there was something more, however.

The witch did not know how long she cried for before she climbed down off the hard stone counter. It was dark out; no twilight shone through the windows. A small light came from the waning moon; a reminder that, though the full moon was near a month away, it would come around again. She would figure out a way to escape before then; she had to. She could not be here when they were all transformed; she did not trust him to protect her. She did not  _want_  him to protect her.

Hermione frowned at the large wooden doors that the werewolf had closed behind him. She wanted to believe him; she would give him this one chance. He seemed like he was trying to earn her trust; and did not ask her at all about the Order, or the war. Trust was a thin line; she was going to give it to him, just for the night. She wanted to be able to relax; to sleep soundly without the wolf in the room. She sighed and climbed into the large bed, trying to find a comfortable position. She found herself wishing she had her own clothes, for the second time that day. She just wanted some pajamas; she just wanted something  _clean_  that did not belong to Fenrir. She would not lower herself to wearing the werewolf's clothing; he would probably see that as an invitation. She may have been trapped, but she was not going to let Fenrir think she was giving in. She choked back more tears as she tried to settle into the soft covers. Wrapping her arms around herself, she soon fell into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Fenrir grit his teeth; she was having nightmares again. He could hear her muffled cries through the walls. He could not pick out words in the noises she made, but he was not trying to listen. He had promised to leave her alone tonight; and he would keep that promise, as hard as it was to leave her alone as she struggled through her night terrors. She was so stubborn; he knew that she had some understanding of why she had not had nightmares the previous night. It all came down to trust; something she did not have for him. He understood her reluctance, but he wanted her to see what was in front of her eyes. He wanted her to know that what she felt was not a lie. She was intelligent; she would figure herself out soon enough.

He rolled over, trying to muffle the sounds that met his keen ears; tonight was promising to be quite restless for both of them.

* * *

Fenrir groaned as sunlight threatened to break through the clouds and onto his face. He had only just fallen asleep a few hours before. His mate had whimpered and cried the entire night; and no matter how tired he was, he could not sleep when he knew she was distressed. He had left at one point, trying to sleep where he could not hear her, but he could not bring himself to leave her completely alone. He knew she was scared; and that knowledge was what was keeping him awake. It was not the noises that kept him up. Werewolves were loud simply by nature; there was often a tousle or two that went on during the hours of the night. Fenrir had learned to ignore noise, but he could not ignore her cries. He had caught himself several times wanting to break his promise to leave her alone; he nearly had once or twice. She had woken up screaming more than once; the sound sending him into a worried frenzy until he remembered she was only dreaming. His instinct to protect her was strong; it took over his body in a way he had not felt in years. He never lost control. Even as a child, he had no trouble controlling his own actions; he had never been conflicted about anything before. His actions and emotions had always fit well together; there had never been an instance where they had not coincided.

Her presence seemed to change everything. Her way of life was so far removed from his. Eventually she would see how much simpler life was this way; but until then, she would resist any action he made that did not fit into her own ideas of how the world worked.

Sighing, Fenrir gave a longing glance down the empty hall. She was still sleeping, and it sounded as though her nightmares had passed for now. He wanted to go in; to see her; to somehow reassure himself that her cries were just from dreams and she was not truly hurt. Sending a harsh glare at the large doors, he started in the opposite direction. He knew she had been listening when he had said he would leave her be for the night; he did not  _have_  to stay away any more, but she would not appreciate him barging in on her just because it was morning and the terms of his promise had been met. If he wanted to earn some semblance of trust, he had to let her come to him. Or at least give her the day; which ever happened to come first.

Today was looking to be very long. He grit his teeth irritably, he might as well start the day now. Anything was better than this  _pining._  Fenrir Greyback did not pine for things; he just took them. He snarled quietly as he strode out of his quarters, and nearly crashed into Mensis' mate.

"Catia!" he let out a surprised growl.

The female immediately began to back away, her head bowed. If she had possessed expressive ears and a tail in that moment, they both would have been as far down as she could make them go. "I—I'm sorry, Alpha. I didn't—"

He sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. "It's not your fault, pup," he said gently.

Catia glanced up at him in confusion, still poised to run should he change his mind.

"I think Hermione will need a friend today. She did not sleep well," he said, "And some new clothes."

The female bobbed her head in acknowledgement, her braid bouncing slightly with the movement. "Do you want me to—" she paused, "take her out?"

Fenrir struggled to keep the growl out of his voice, "No. She will run if given the chance." His heart fell at the thought of never seeing her again; she was not leaving this castle until he was sure she would come back. "If you could let her borrow something of yours today; I will send someone out to buy her some of her own."

"Of course, Alpha. I think that Elise would be grateful if you sent her. Sel has been picking on her again."

 _Sel. He has to go._  That wolf had caused more problems than any two or even three put together. He was self-centered and arrogant; and made a point of badgering the smaller, mateless females. "Thank you, Catia. You can go in. She's asleep, but I'm sure she would much rather see you than me when she wakes up."

"She'll come around," Catia tried to encourage him before skirting past him and through the door.

 _How long until then, though?_  He grunted irritably.  _First things first._  He headed down toward the western wings.

Elise spent a good portion of her time in the nursery, taking care of the few cubs that had working parents. He was certain he would find her there this morning.

Fenrir tried not to frown at the wolves who passed him in the halls. It was not their fault that his mate was less than tolerant. There weren't many that adjusted easily to this life when they found out what they had gotten into. He let his lips turn upwards when the scents of an unfamiliar female and a young male wafted up the stairs ahead of the couple. A new face never failed to cheer him slightly; it could not have come at a better time. The male's eyes widened slightly and he declined his head respectfully as they approached.

"Good morning, Alpha," the young wolf addressed him timidly; the woman at his side stared shyly at her own feet.

They were both nervous; he could not help the slight smile that fought its way onto his face. "Good morning. Nathanael, isn't it?" he managed calmly.

"Yes, sir," the wolf nodded, lifting his head slightly; encouraged by Fenrir's gentle tone.

He shot the young man a grin, "Is your new mate mute?"

The youngster was taken aback at Fenrir's casual attitude. He opened his mouth to speak, but Fenrir addressed the woman directly before he could be interrupted.

"What is your name, pup?"

"Celia," she raised her head slightly, shrinking against her mate.

She was respectful.  _Good._ Fenrir closed the large gap that lay between him and the couple; he stooped slightly and lifted the young woman's face to meet his eyes. "You don't have to be afraid of me, Celia. Not unless you've done something horribly wrong; and I cannot imagine that of you. That being said, a healthy respect is good, right?" She nodded vigorously as he continued, "Good. Remember that, and you will do well." Fenrir smiled slightly. "You are part of the pack now. We all watch out for each other."

The young female nodded again. "I will not disappoint you."

"I am sure you will not." He stepped back and addressed them both in a firm but gentle dismissal, "Good morning."

The two continued up the stairs to the upper halls. Fenrir let out an amused snort; some adjusted fine, apparently. They would do well together. At the rate his pack was growing, the halls would be full again someday soon. They had to be careful during Moonstime now; there were too many of them in one place. They were far from any largely populated areas, but there were enough small towns around that a witch or wizard might happen upon a small hunting party during the full moon. They were all careful; all but a few. If the pack grew any more, those few would have to be put out or put down. Endangering the pack was the worst of crimes, and Fenrir dealt with it severely. If a wolf wanted to make trouble on his own head, that was fine; but not here. Fenrir was the one who had to explain to the cubs why exactly it was that their parents were dead; it was his job to protect them and he had failed in it before. It had been years since the last time anything had gone wrong, but the tension stemming from a certain group of singles made him think that trouble was not far off.

"Alpha!" A chorus of small voices greeted him as he stepped through the door into the nursery. A mess of cubs scampered toward him, excited that he had come to visit them.

The soft growl that Fenrir had meant to direct at them turned into a quiet laugh as the older ones suddenly seemed to remember that they were not allowed to run up to him without an invitation. Their eyes grew wide and some of them stopped so hard they fell down. The whole scene was so comical; Fenrir had to laugh. The pile of cubs took a moment to straighten itself; there were small growls and yelps as they each tried to stand without stepping on the others; something they were not very good at, it seemed. One girl finally separated herself from the tangled mass of cubs and slowly approached him.

Her bright, canary eyes stared up at him and she lightly tugged on his shirt. "Alpha. Can you play with us?"

Six pairs of eyes stared up at him expectantly; each one a different color. He sighed at their earnest display.

"We'll see. Is Elise here?"

"Yes. She's changing Peter's nappy," the small girl replied, pointing to the adjoining room.

"Thank you, Lyra."

The cub bounced off to return to her toys, her fine black hair swinging with every step. The younger ones followed suit, but not as quickly. He could feel their eyes on him, however, as he turned to the room the toddler had directed him to. They all wanted to know if he could stay and play.

"Good morning, Alpha," Elise greeted him as she struggled to hold the squirming toddler she was changing still.

Fenrir's stern growl quieted the boy instantly. The cub stared up at him, his blue and brown eyes wide. He was one of the rare few born, not only as a wolf, but also with eyes that were different colors. Fenrir did not think too much about why that was; he just accepted that it was.

"Elise, would you run some errands today?"

The brown-haired female perked up at his question. Setting the small boy back on the floor, she responded, "I would like that; I can see if someone else will watch the cubs while I am gone."

Fenrir shook his head, "No need. I can take care of this rowdy bunch for a while. Actually, Elise, if you could go find Catia, she can tell you exactly what is needed."

Elise bobbed her head gratefully.

"Ask Catia if she will come down here next time it is convenient. Don't rush her, but I would like to speak with her."

"Yes, Alpha."

Elise grinned and nearly scampered off toward the upper halls. Catia was right; Elise needed an excuse to be somewhere else, if only for a little while.

"Alright, pups, what are we playing?"

A chorus of cheers greeted him and he listened intently to Lyra as she explained the game they all wanted to play.

* * *

Hermione did not bother to look up as the door creaked open. She rolled over, trying to cover her eyes. Her nightmares had returned, and they were worse than they had been before. She had hardly slept a restful wink the entire night. She had managed to catch a few peaceful hours as the sun came up, but now she was resigned to the fact that she would not get any more sleep today. She tried to ignore the soft footsteps that came toward her. She did not have the energy to fight with Fenrir this morning. She was exhausted. She hoped that if she pretended to be asleep he would leave her alone.

The voice she heard was not his, however.

"You don't have to pretend, Hermione," Catia's warm voice was a welcome sound, much preferred to Greyback, "A person smells different when they're asleep."

Hermione sat up, rubbing her tired eyes. She was not going to argue with the woman; it seemed useless to argue with either of the werewolves she had met, and she imagined it would be the same with any others.

She smiled gratefully as the pregnant woman handed her a cup of black tea. The first sip seemed to unclog her head instantly. "Invigoration Draught?"

"Just a few drops," the woman smiled knowingly.

"Thank you. I needed this."

"I brought you something else you might like." She held out a pile of cloth that Hermione instantly recognized as clean clothes.

"Oh my goodness! Thank you!" Hermione popped out of bed. Taking the clothes from the other woman, she darted to the bathroom. "I'll just be a minute."

"I hope they fit," Catia's voice came from the other side of the door, "They were mine."

Hermione squealed with delight as she slipped on the clean fabric. She never thought she would be so happy to put on clean clothes. They fit her just about right; the jeans were a little bigger at the waist than she was used to, but they were comfortable. She breathed a sigh of contentment. Today was not looking to be so bad after all. She opened the door and walked back to the nightstand to grab the tea Catia had brought here.

"Thank you. I needed this. All of this."

"Of course. It takes a while to adjust; clean clothes are the least I can do."

Hermione could not find it within herself to tell the woman she did not plan on adjusting. Something told her that Fenrir would not let her alone unguarded until she had  _adjusted_ , however. It was clever of him, she supposed. She did not want to credit him with intelligence, but it was clear he was quite smart, if not patient. He was certainly not patient. She knew he was used to getting what he wanted, and she was on the list. She was beginning to doubt the thought she had possessed that said he only wanted her as a plaything. If that was true, he would not have suddenly been so gentle. Unless that was a part of his game as well.

Hermione groaned in frustration before taking another sip of her tea. "Why can't he just be what I always thought he was?" she asked quietly, more to herself than to the blonde woman.

"When has life ever been that way?" was all Catia replied with. "Are you hungry? I think some breakfast is in order."

Hermione nodded gratefully and followed the woman down the hall into the kitchen. She watched, feeling rather helpless as the woman rummaged through the cupboards, muttering under her breath. Hermione did not catch most of what she was saying, but the exasperated frown on her face and the words she did hear made Hermione smile a little.

"Stupid—males—never find anything—" Catia clattered about for several minutes, taking things out and putting half of what she took out back in a different spot.

"There," she said finally, seemingly satisfied with what she had found, "It looks like eggs and toast it is; is that alright?"

Hermione nodded. She had not been particularly picky about her food lately; eggs and toast sounded wonderful. Fenrir had not starved her, certainly, but Catia had supplied her with most of her food as of the day before. She stared as the young woman began to work. She felt rather helpless once again; learning to cook was one of those skills that she had never truly learned. She had buried herself in the pursuit of magical knowledge, but had little know-how on how to cook anything without express direction.

"Would you like to help, Hermione?" Catia asked, giving her another knowing smile.

How did this woman seem to know everything that was going on in her head? Hermione nodded, "I—um—I'm not much of a cook."

"That's alright. Just watch the eggs for me while I make toast. See, they're already starting to solidify. In a minute or two they will be ready to flip."

Hermione watched the eggs carefully. She did not want to burn them. She always felt like she burned the things she made. Harry had always been better at cooking than she was. A question came to mind when she realized the stove was electric.

"There's electricity here!"

Catia laughed, "Every room has a light-switch, Mistress."

"I—I didn't notice. I guess I just assumed it was all magical." She suddenly felt very silly.

"Not all werewolves are witches and wizards. There have been many muggles in the past that have joined the pack; often more out of necessity than anything else. The presence of electricity makes them feel at home, and helps them function relatively normally. They don't belong in their world any longer, and the magical world does not help them very much."

"I didn't realize they actually survived the transition. Those children in the stories—"

"That was nearly forty years ago. Muggle technology has advanced enough that they can often keep bite victims alive until magical law enforcement arrives. They are treated, given a rundown on their condition, provided with Wolfsbane once a month, and are sent on their way. They get no real answers; only what the wizarding community knows about werewolves; which is very little."

"I'm beginning to realize that," Hermione replied glumly, "I am not sure I believe it all, but I do think there are a lot of things that we have wrong. Should I flip them now?" Hermione gestured to the eggs she had been watching.

Catia peered into the pan where the eggs were sizzling nicely. "Yeah, go ahead and flip them. Don't be too concerned if it's not perfect."

Hermione cringed at the woman's words as the first egg flopped over itself instead of flipping. She struggled with it for a moment before getting it where she wanted. Soon she had flipped both over successfully. It was not long before the toast was done as well. With a little more rummaging, Catia managed to find some plates and silverware.

"You should get after him for this," the woman sighed at the disarray of the kitchen. "Alpha or not, he should not be allowed to make cooking so hard."

Hermione could not help the laugh that escaped her lips. "I suppose it could do with some rearranging."

"Ugh. Once I have this baby I will come over here and fix it for you. I know you don't cook now, but if you want, I can teach you. You don't have to learn, but I enjoy it, I figured you might like something to do."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. "I think I can live with that."

Catia grinned. "It's a lot like potions, but less stringent. You don't have to worry about which way you stirred the mixture. Order is very important, though."

They ate in a quiet confidence; Catia occasionally making some comforting small talk. Hermione was surprised with the normality of it all. She almost wished she could settle down the way the other woman had. Feeling safe would be a wonderful constant in her life. Safety and appreciation; those were things she desperately hoped to find once the war was over, but somewhere far from here. Somewhere without werewolves. To her surprise, that happy place from her dreams no longer had Ron as a prominent companion. It was not an odd development; she felt as though they had been drifting apart. Their relationship was not strong enough to handle the stress produced by the war.

Hermione offered to clean up the dishes when they were done; she was nearly done with the washing when there was a knock at the entry door. She gave Catia a startled glance.

The blonde woman shrugged in response. "It's your home, Mistress."

"Um—Come in?" she called hesitantly.

The door opened to reveal a dark-haired woman with a bright smile and a small frame.

"Catia?"

"Come in, Elise."

"Mistress, this is Elise. She often watches the children in the nursery."

Hermione nodded. She could not help but stare at the small woman for a moment. She had several prominent scars across her face and arms; though they did not diminish her vivacity.

"I'm sorry." Hermione said immediately when she realized she had been rude, "I'm Hermione. I didn't mean to—"

"Oh, don't worry, Mistress. I am used to it. I hardly think about them anymore. The werewolf who gave them to me had been dead a long time now. Now, Alpha said you had a list for me?"

"Not exactly." Catia replied. "We need clothes."

Hermione's eyes lit up; she felt a small amount of affection for the werewolf's consideration. He had told her she could have new clothes; but she was not expecting this.

"What do you like to wear, Hermione?" Elise questioned politely.

Hermione smiled and began to tell the new woman all she could think of about what she normally wore. They discussed colors and fit and brands; and Elise was still asking questions when Hermione's fashion knowledge was depleted. Seemingly satisfied after a thorough interrogation, the woman turned to leave.

"I will be back!" she exclaimed happily. "Oh! Catia! Alpha said he would like to talk to you at some point this morning. He should be down in the nursery." The woman left with a skip in her step.

Hermione gave a start; she had a massive amount of trouble imagining the irritable werewolf actually safely taking charge of  _children_. She turned to Catia and gave her a worried expression. There was no way he would treat them right.

Catia gave her a mysterious grin. "Shall we go?"

Hermione nodded and they headed down toward the nursery. She knew it was in the western part of the castle, but they had not traveled that far on their escapade the previous day. Hermione gave Catia another worried glance at the shrieks that wafted down the hall. Those could  _not_ be good sounds. She quickened her pace; whoever thought that leaving kids alone with the homicidal werewolf was a good idea—she could not believe someone would be so careless.

* * *

Fenrir chuckled at the children's persistence. Fairytales were behind all of their games' themes today. At one point he had told them the story of the three little pigs; Lyra had decided that it was a bad story and had announced that  _she_  would not be so slow that she could not catch a pig. The other children had all agreed, and as punishment for an unsatisfactory story, they told Fenrir that he was to be the giant in their next game.

"You stole the princess," Lyra handed him a soft doll with a pink dress and a crown. "And we have to get you now."

"Not if I get you first," he teased, slowly chasing after each of them in turn. Their shrieks of laughter brought a smile to his face. After a minute or two, he managed to grab ahold of little Peter and began to tickle the cub mercilessly.

"He's killing Sir Peter! Get him!"

Fenrir turned to find six small bodies jumping for him in unison. He feigned a struggle, pulling several of them off their feet before he gave in. "You have bested me."

"He's faking!" A bright green-eyed boy yelled. "We gotta knock him down!"

"Kill the giant!" A chorus sprung around the room. The children continued their assault, shrieking with mirth as he tickled each one that came near.

Fenrir heard footsteps over the sounds the cubs were making, but did not pay any attention to them. He was too busy trying to keep the little ones from pinning him to the ground. He grunted when Lyra pounced on his chest, allowing her to knock him onto the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hermione's form walk through the door, her worried expression turned quickly to shock and then she covered her mouth. He assumed she was hiding her laughter; she was too proud to laugh at him yet. He was sure the entire scene was quite comical.

"I got him!" Lyra cried triumphantly.

"I got the princess!" A cub named Kody yelled, and he proceeded to parade around the room with the doll held high.

All heads turned suddenly at the presence of a woman than none of the cubs had encountered before. Their game over; they crowded around his mate. The cubs that were born with Lycanthropy sniffed her carefully; those that were not wolves just stared at her intently. She looked down at them, surprised.

Fenrir sat up and casually watched her interact with them.

Lyra leaned toward Hermione, her little nose trying to decipher all the smells. She frowned slightly, "You are wearing Miss Catia's clothes. She is too big to fit in them anymore." The girl glanced back at Fenrir and then once again to Hermione. Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed both of them; but her features suddenly broke into a smile. "You are Alpha's mate!"

Fenrir looked on as Hermione was taken aback by the small child's deduction. She had a sad smile on her face, but did not answer the accusation; instead she told the cubs her name. They introduced themselves one by one, starting with Lyra, the oldest, and ending with Kody, who was the youngest of the seven.

"Will you play with us too, Mistress?" Peter asked innocently.

Fenrir could see the war on her face. She had not sorted out the entire situation in her head yet; he kept changing her expectations of him. He gave her a cocky grin, which she only frowned at.

"I know." She said, "Let's play Little Red Riding Hood. I'll be Red, you can be the wolves, and Alpha can be the woodcutter."

Fenrir opened his mouth indignantly when the mess of cubs tackled him once more. He narrowed his eyes at the satisfied smirk she sent him. It was not long before Lyra was sitting on his chest again.

"Is Mistress angry at you, Alpha?"

"Why do you ask?" he grunted at the small child.

"Mama sometimes makes that face at Papa. Usually when she is angry." She shrugged, and patiently waited for an answer.

"Yes, I suppose she is. What does your Papa do when your Mama is angry with him?"

She crinkled her nose up at his question, "He gives her kissies. But not night-night kissies;  _yucky_  kissies."

He laughed, then sat up and set the girl on the floor. "I wish that would make my problem better." He pointedly made eye contact with his mate, who merely rolled her eyes at him.

The little girl frowned. "Can I help? Sometimes Papa has me take flowers to Mama when she is mad."

He smiled at the girl's earnest will to help. "Not this time, little one. She does not like wolves yet. Your Mama was like that for a while before you were born."

She frowned, and without another word stalked over to Hermione. "Does that mean you don't like  _me?!"_

"Of course not!" Hermione replied immediately.

"Then why don't you like wolves? I'm a wolf," the girl demanded.

"I—" She glared at Fenrir.

He shrugged nonchalantly; she would have to get herself out of this one.

"I do like wolves," she said finally, "I just don't like  _certain_ wolves."

Fenrir did not miss the glare she shot in his direction.

The girl did not miss the interaction. "Why? You are mates, like my Mama and Papa."

Fenrir grinned; she could not deny a child's simple statement. She stood there, speechless in front of the three year old.

Lyra's eyes got wide. "Do you not like his kissies? Sometimes Mama does not like Papa's kissies." She nodded determinedly without waiting for an answer and walked back over to Fenrir. "She does not like your kissies."

He could not help grinning at Hermione's stunned face. He knew she would not get angry at the cub; but she might blame the whole situation on him. Rightly so; he had an inkling she would follow Catia down and had hoped she would catch him in a moment of playfulness. She needed to see every side of him to get over her own ideas of him. Granted, many of them  _were_  true; but there was far more to him than the side she had heard about. She glared at him, her arms folded tightly against her chest. He stood; a grin still on his face. She huffed as he closed the distance between them.

"Well, is the cub right?" He questioned her quietly.

Hermione pursed her lips. "What do you think?" her voice was dripping with hostility. Her whole body was tense, but she did not stink of fear.

He hummed softly and gently placed a hand on her arm. He could hear her heart begin to beat faster as his hand pressed against her smooth skin. "I think you don't  _want_  to like me," he gave her a small grin, "but that doesn't mean you don't."

All she seemed capable of at the moment was glaring at him. He could hear her teeth grinding together as she clenched her jaw.

He raised his eyebrows at her, a smug grin growing on his face. He leaned toward her, savoring her scent; for once, it was free of fear. Her scent was fiery with anger, but underneath that, it was flat. She was exhausted. She was good at hiding it; he would not have known how tired she truly was if her scent was not so affected by it. He let a worried groan and ignored her protests as he rested his forehead on hers. "You don't have to pretend," he whispered to her. He tried to catch her eye, but she refused to look at him. He moved away as tears streamed down her cheeks once more; he was certain they were tears of fury.

Her beautiful features were contorted into a look of avid confliction. She had opened her mouth, presumably to speak, when Catia came in behind her.

"Alpha. This owl came for you."

Fenrir nodded; his previous irritation returning. There were few who owled him, and of those few, none of them would be welcome at the moment. He braved a kiss on his mate's forehead before removing himself from her striking range.

She did not strike out as he expected, but instead met his eyes in a fiery temper. "Leave. Me. ALONE!"

He was impressed with her display; her temper, once provoked, might even rival his. He was no longer in the mood for her denial, however. He had been patient, and it was wearing him thin. He snarled at her, "Fine." He snatched the letter out of Catia's hands and stalked out of the room. He turned back to his obstinate mate and growled, "I hope you weren't planning on sleeping well tonight. Your nightmares will only get worse." It was a reasonable assumption; he hoped she would give it some thought, but for now, he had other things to do.

He growled again as he scanned the letter's contents. He  _hated_ being summoned like a pet. He heard Hermione's quiet voice in his head as he apparated.

_Why do you follow him?_


	9. Sympathies

Malfoy Manor was abuzz with activity. Before the large door was opened to admit him, Fenrir could hear all manner of sounds coming from within. Most were muffled and distorted even once he stepped into the grand foyer; the Death Eaters were hushed today. If his hearing had not been quite so good, the morbid prestige of the ancient manor would have been preserved. This was a place for grand occasions, not for scared whisperings in the corridors; Fenrir did not care for either, but the once magnificent manor house was diminished in the presence of fear. The sharp scents of dread and outrage greeted him as he entered; he bit back a snarl at the bitter smells. He could not help but give a calculated glance toward the dark windows; this place smelled like a cage. He was not going to be trapped here.

Fear was no way to live. Many of the Dark Lord's subjects were terrified of him; he inspired little to no true loyalty from those that followed him. All but a few had their own ulterior motives for aligning themselves with the Dark Lord. That Lestrange woman seemed to be the only one who followed out of devotion. For Fenrir, as well as for others, he was simply a means to an end. Not only was he able to exact his revenge against those who had hunted him, but there was also the promise of a world where werewolves could run without fear of persecution. His kind was hunted as readily as they hunted others, but it was without provocation as often as not; if there was a wolf about, it deserved to die. He was beginning to doubt the choice he had made, however, if for nothing but his mate's safety, and perhaps his own sanity. He grunted; he would worry about that later. Now was neither the time nor the place for such dangerous thoughts.

"Upstairs," Narcissa Malfoy directed him in a hushed voice and shut the door behind him.

Fenrir tried not to snarl at the woman; she already reeked of fear. He did not need to see the red streaks on her face or her worn eyes to know that this had been going on for a time. She looked worse than she had even a few days ago; her cheeks were sallow and thin and she smelled weak. This was no way to live.

He gave the woman a curt nod and walked in the direction that the reedy woman had pointed in. His growl increased as he walked; they were all acting like someone had died; or someone was about to die. They were running scared of their own leader. For once, Fenrir was glad he was not counted in their number. He enjoyed the hunt the job provided, but nothing was worth this fear. Trading sanity for someone's word was not something he was willing to do.

The hair on his neck bristled as the Dark Lord's voice stood out in his hearing; despite the warnings that his instincts screamed, he followed the grating sound to its source.

"Ah, Fenrir. Welcome."

Fenrir's skin crawled at the Dark Lord's address. His first instinct when he met a poisonous snake was to destroy it; now that he had someone to protect, that urge had doubled. He clenched his teeth together; he could not appear any differently than he had before. Fenrir took in the sight of the room he had entered. The two whelps that had so unceremoniously upset his mate were both tied to chairs in the center of what used to be a small bedroom. He should be grateful; without their incompetence, he would not have gotten to her before the other snatchers, and she would have been tied in this room as well. The boys were rank with fear, but the Potter boy also smelled of courage and stubborn resilience. He would not give in easily.

"What did you do with Hermione?!"

Fenrir stifled a growl at the red-head's demanding query.  _I would kill you for hurting her if it would not hurt her more._

"These boys keep asking about their mudblood friend. Do tell them, wolf, how is she faring in your care?"

The Dark Lord's condescending tone could not dampen the pleasure he received from the look of horror on the whelps' faces. It was the Weasely's turn to feel helpless. He would take great pleasure in making the boy feel useless. He had upset Fenrir's mate; he had made her feel worthless, and that was not something the werewolf was going to let slide past him. He turned to the boys, allowing a pleased growl to build in his throat as he spoke.

"I have gotten to know the girl  _quite_  well." He smirked, running his tongue across his fangs before pointedly meeting the eyes of the Weasley whelp. "She doesn't scream like I thought she would; but there is still time to experiment." He shot both boys a sadistic grin, showing more of his cruel teeth.

"Let her go!"

Fenrir raised his eyebrows at the messy-haired boy's demand; he did not care for this boy's feelings one way or another. The other boy was beginning to look like he was going to sick up. It was not enough to satisfy the werewolf, however.

He let out a happy growl, "I don't think so, boy. I am getting  _quite_  used to her presence. Do you know how  _warm_  she is?" He turned once more to the redhead, "Oh. I forgot. You  _don't._  I do. I think I will keep her for a while. I may even bite her; what would you think of her then, ginger?"

"You're a monster," the boy spat at him; the venom behind his words did not reach his face. His courage was draining quickly, "She would not be any different. She will never change."

"Mm. Shall we test that theory? It won't take much; I only have to draw blood." He bared his fangs to emphasize his point.

"She will still be the same," the ginger repeated.

Fenrir cocked his head and leaned in closer. Smirking once again, he spoke in a soft growl, "Do you want her, ginger? How does it feel, knowing I will have her first?" The boy was beginning to reek with anxiety. Now he was getting somewhere. "She may scream in the beginning, but she will beg for me before the end." The boy dropped his stare, his jaw clenched. Fenrir could smell the salt from the tears that leaked out of the boy's eyes. Satisfied, he backed away.

"Do think about your poor Mudblood friend, Potter. I may be able to make her life easier if you tell me what you know. I will not be as lenient later," the Dark Lord threatened before turning and exiting the room.

Fenrir followed the Dark Lord's sweeping black robes back down the stairs; he knew there was more to this summons than tormenting a couple of whelps. He was certain that was part of it. Judging by the current state of tension in the mansion, neither boy was talking. Perhaps the knowledge that Fenrir had taken Hermione would loosen their tongues a bit. It would certainly make life easier for him; though, he could not deny he had immensely enjoyed the ginger's discomfort.

As they walked through the halls of the dark mansion in silence, Fenrir began to smell the wafts of anger coming off the Dark Lord. He grit his teeth, this was not going to be pleasant. Eventually they reached another small room with a harsh stone floor.

"That mudblood. I want her, wolf. She will talk to save her friends, or they will talk to save her."

Fenrir did not bother to rein in his snarl, damn the consequences; no one was going anywhere near the young woman. "If you touch her—"

"Oh?" Fury was coming off the Dark Lord in forceful waves, but he was outwardly calm. There was no visible sign that he was angrier than normal, but Fenrir knew better. "She calls to you," he mused quietly, "Very well; I will leave her to you. It will be a fitting place for her; a mudblood among halfbreeds."

Fenrir tried not to growl at the demeaning comment. He knew he was seen as nothing but a tool; a rabid hound only to be called when there was a specific job from him to do. One day, perhaps, he would show the Dark Lord what a mistake it was to leash a monster; but today was not that day. He was not going to get off that easily, and he knew it. He cringed when the other wizard called out.

"Bella!"

Fenrir growled as the insane witch entered the room. He had never liked the smell of this one.

"You see, wolf, my dear Bellatrix wanted to teach that mudblood girl a lesson. Since you are against that idea, you shall be a suitable replacement. Don't you agree?"

Fenrir set his jaw, meeting the witch's manic stare with a glare of his own.

* * *

"Bye bye, 'Miohne."

Hermione smiled as the small blue-eyed toddler yawned and rubbed his eyes tiredly. It had been a long day for all the children. "Goodbye, Kody. Have a good night."

"Kay. Nigh night."

"Thank you, Mistress." Kody's father said quietly before scooping up his son and carting him off to bed.

Hermione sighed and sank into the large red armchair in the corner of the room. It had been a long day for her too. She was ready to sink into bed herself. Her energy had been completely drained by the rowdy kids. They had so much energy, and today she did not have much of that to begin with.

Catia smiled at her; her grin was genuine, but also tired.

Hermione eyed the pregnant woman, "I think you need sleep as much as I do, maybe more."

The werewolf laughed good-naturedly, "Yes, I think you're right. We both could use a good night's sleep." Catia trailed off and glanced sharply toward the hall. "We need to go. Now."

Hermione stood, immediately concerned at the woman's alarmed tone. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes. Something is not quite right. We should go back."

Hermione's mind raced as they moved quickly back toward the Northern wings.  _What on earth was going on?_  The woman obviously knew something she did not. Perhaps she really could hear more than a normal human.

They had reached the door to their shared sitting room when a male voice rang out behind them.

"Catia."

Hermione spun around as the other woman immediately replied.

"Mensis!"

The werewolf was supporting a large form that, after a quick moment, Hermione realized was Fenrir; and Mensis was not supporting him so much as he was carrying the larger wolf. He was barely conscious. Blood dripped from the Alpha's jaw; Hermione found herself hoping it wasn't his, but she had the feeling it was. His hair hung limp, soaked in his own sweat. She could not see his face.

Her voice shook as she spoke, "What happened?"

"Not now, Mistress," Mensis grunted, his voice strained with the effort of holding up the bulk of the other werewolf, "I need to get him inside."

Hermione nodded, her hands trembled as she opened the door for him.

Catia moved to help, but her mate snarled at her, making Hermione jump.

Shaking his head, Mensis spoke softly, "I'm sorry, love. He won't tolerate it. He barely allowed my help." He clenched his jaw, nearing his destination.

Hermione opened the door to Fenrir's bedroom, and Mensis quickly brought the larger man inside.

"What happened?" Hermione asked once more as Mensis steadied Fenrir before climbing out from under him. The large werewolf did not sway where he stood, but he did not seem coherent either.  _What happened to him?_

"Sel is dead," he replied casually, "He thought Alpha weak enough to test tonight. He should have known better."

Three heads whipped across to Fenrir as a low growl filled the room.

The two healthy werewolves were halfway out the door before Hermione realized what was going on.

Catia turned to her before closing the door behind her, "He won't allow any help but yours, Hermione. Take care of him," and with that, she and her mate left her alone with Greyback.

Hermione did not miss that his growl ceased as soon as the pair had vacated themselves. She cautiously approached the werewolf, if he was not truly conscious, he could kill her. As she got closer, she began to realize what had happened. Red streaks from what she was certain were unbidden tears lined his face. His eyes held a look she had never seen before. The usually fiery amber irises were haunted and wild; like a caged animal; trapped in a dangerous place with no way to esapce.

He had been tortured; but she could only guess by whom, and for what.  _He must have deserved it_ ; she tried to convince herself of her own reasoning.

Fenrir moved toward her slowly, his arms slightly stretched out for her.

Hermione jumped away from his touch on impulse and immediately cringed, expecting him to snarl at her, but the sound that he made was not what she expected at all. In fact, the sound he made threatened to shatter her heart. A broken whine reached her ears. It was not loud, but it was like a shout in the quite room. She braved a look into the werewolf's eyes. Her heart broke; he looked so lost and hurt. She wished he would snarl or yell or threaten to bite her, or something; anything but this. She couldn't fight this. She wanted to hate him, to be angry with him, but she could not bear to leave him like this.

He whined again; the sound shaking her to the core. Unbidden tears flowed down her cheeks in an unspoken act of sympathy. Her hands trembled as she reached out for his weakened form.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, allowing him to wrap his arms around her. They were shaking. "Why?" she asked him softly. What could he have possibly done to earn such a beating? He was strong; the extent of the torture he would have to undergo to get him to this state must have been unimaginable. She got the feeling that what he went through would have driven anyone else insane, though she was not entirely certain he escaped that; he still had not uttered a word.

His response to her question confused her. Fenrir pulled her tighter into his trembling arms, resting his head in the crook of her neck. His whole body seemed to shake with any effort of motion; but his lips rested steadily on her neck. He certainly loved that particular spot; he always gravitated there. He whined softly as he gave her a gentle kiss.

She wished she could understand his actions. She was not certain they were supposed to be a response to her question or if he just needed to be comforted. If it was an answer, did that mean he had done this for her? Something deep inside told her that there was no other reason he would be tortured so badly. "Why?" she choked. No one had ever put themselves in harm's way for her before. Ron would not even dance with her; but this werewolf, this man she barely knew, had been tortured, and her heart told her it had been to protect her.

"Mate," he rasped as gently as his hoarse voice would allow.

He could barely speak. Anger filled the young woman; how could someone do this to him? She was amazed he was even alive. He had been tortured to the point of being unable to speak and, even when he appeared helpless, had killed a challenger. She felt a strange sense of pride in him; he was so strong. There  _was_  something different about him, and maybe not just in the horrible ways. She stared at his blood-stained, dirty face, and turned in his arms so she was no longer facing him. He whined again, not wanting her to leave his side.

"I'm here," she reassured him. "Let me clean you up," she said, telling herself it was only motherly instinct that wanted to care for him.  _Instinct. That's what he would say. Maybe he's right. Partially._

Slowly, she led him to the adjoining bathroom. He leaned on her for support the whole way. She struggled with every step; he was  _heavy_ , and he was carrying a great deal of his own weight. His breathing was ragged, and she did not think he would have made the trip without help. She sat him down on the edge of the large tub and made sure he was not going to fall backwards into it before she let go of him. He let out another whine when she left him to grab a few towels from one of the shelves.

Hermione had the urge to shush him, but did not have the heart. She plugged the bathtub drain and began to run the hot water; she would need more than a little to get him clean.

She bit her lip and frowned at the man's chest. He was bleeding; long angry claw marks spanned the length of his chest. His torn t-shirt was soaked in blood. Hermione decided that she needed to attend to those first, before he bled too much. She needed to get his shirt off; he could not do it by himself yet. She put on a determined frown and tried to be as clinical as possible. She reached around his torso to grab the back of his shirt and heard a pleased grunt come from the werewolf's throat. Rolling her eyes and trying to ignore the heat of a blush that was crawling up her face, she pulled off his shirt carefully, avoiding his injuries as best as she could. She helped him maneuver his arms out of his sleeves and tossed the ruined garment aside.

Hermione dipped the towel in the warm water that was filling the tub and began cleaning the dried blood from the injuries on Fenrir's chest. She pressed the warm towel to the areas where it was still bleeding. He growled softly, flinching away from the pressure. "I'm sorry. It's going to sting. Can you hold it there?" she asked gently.

She was glad to see he was regaining a fraction of his strength; he slowly moved a muscled arm to the towel and held it in place. His whole arm trembled slightly from the effort. He stared at her with his large, golden eyes as she turned off the water to the tub and turned her attention to his face. She avoided his intense gaze as she gently wiped the sweat and dirt from his face, trying not to think about each part as she released it from the mask of gore. She was not successful; as the unwanted substances disappeared, Hermione found herself truly taking in his face for the first time. His dark hair was limp from sweat, but she knew it hung in loose waves when it was clean and dry. His brow was furrowed in pain, but his eyes no longer held the look of wild paranoia that they had. His amber eyes looked nearly content, if still hurt. The short stubble that normally covered his strong jaw had grown into a layer of scruff; he had not shaved in a few days. The uneven hair only made him look worse; though removing the blood and sweat had made a world of difference on his handsome face. His eyes were red and swollen, but that would improve with a little time.

Fenrir's face clean, Hermione turned once again to his chest. She gently pulled his had away and removed the towel. The scratches must not have been deep, because the bleeding had stopped already. The long wounds were still red, but they were not excessively warm.  _No infection. Good._  She wished she had her wand so she could be certain, but for all she knew, it was still lying where the werewolf had knocked it out of her hand in the Forest of Dean.

When Hermione had done all she could, she braved a look into his golden eyes. Noticing some dirt that she had missed on his forehead, she wiped his brow once more with the clean corner of a towel. She dropped it in surprise when Fenrir's hand moved up and held her hand to his rough face. He closed his eyes in silent thanks, his lips turned slightly upwards. He leaned gently into her hand, seemingly unwilling to release it. She stared at him, feeling the urge to do more; there was nothing more she could do for him aside from the simple comfort of her presence. He seemed happy with her willingness to just sit with him, even though he had expressed more in earlier times. He was probably in too much pain to even think about it. Her heart suddenly pounding, she knew what she would do for him. She could not repay him for taking this for her, but she could give him one thing.

Hermione took a deep breath before moving closer to the werewolf. She inhaled sharply when her nose brushed against his; his eyes darted open, wide and wondering. Closing her eyes, Hermione pressed her lips to his in a hesitant kiss. It was not long at all; she pulled away as an unfamiliar heat bloomed in her abdomen. "Thank you," she said softly, meeting his amber eyes once more.

Fenrir's eyes brightened slightly. "Sleep?" he asked, exhaustion plainly obvious in his hoarse voice.

Hermione smiled. "Yes. Sleep." She offered him her shoulder and helped him onto his feet. Rest would be the key to his recovery. She was certain he would be able to get around by himself tomorrow, or at least not require quite so much assistance.

Fenrir leaned on her, but not as heavily as he had before. He swayed slightly as he stood and she instantly placed a hand on his bare chest to steady him. She blushed, but continued to help him toward the bed. When they reached the edge, Hermione tried to ease him down into sitting on the edge, but instead, he fell backwards, collapsing onto the soft bed. She cried out, unable to stop his fall. A moment later he grunted and rolled so that he was facing her, his bright eyes boring into hers. She let out a relieved sigh; he seemed no worse for wear. She made to leave him to sleep in peace, but stopped as she felt his trembling hand grab her arm. Another whine ripped out from his throat.

"Mate," he managed. His eyes were half-lidded as he pleaded with her to stay.

Hermione bit her lip; her rational mind told her that she should not climb into the bed with the werewolf, but she wanted to.  _Just for the night,_  she told herself,  _and only because he is injured._  She gently slid in next to the werewolf, pulling the covers over the both of them. She fleetingly thought that she might escape her nightmares again tonight; but it was a weak hope. She did not want her  _dreams_  to be tied to him as well. That seemed so far into the realm of the absurd; it had to be a coincidence.

Fenrir wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his body until her back met his chest. He gave a happy grunt and buried his face in her hair. He was soon silent and still; Hermione could not keep her eyes open and quickly followed him into sleep.


	10. The Mourning After

Fenrir's eyes flitted open. The first thing he noticed was the brunette witch sleeping peacefully against his chest. He lay still, unwilling to disturb her; she would be up soon enough. He wished she was this compliant when she was awake; when he was not injured. That was the second thing he noticed that morning; the pain was gone. He had always healed quickly, and it did not come as a great shock that he was no longer in pain, but he was surprised there did not seem to be any residual effects. She had cared for him last night. He had been barely coherent, but he remembered everything, albeit fuzzily. He smiled at the vague memory of her lips brushing his; she had kissed him, without any prompting, of her own free will. Granted, it was only out of gratitude, but it was a slight change in how she saw him. Perhaps if he died for her, she would love him; that bitter thought brought even more bitter memories to the surface. Things he had not thought of in years.

" _Father?" Fenrir had jumped as the door slammed closed, he knew his father had heard his call; he had heard it, and blatantly ignored it._

" _You cannot_ make _people love you, Fenrir." His mother had coaxed him back into her lap._

" _Mama. You love me, right?"_

" _Yes, little moon; I love you more than anything."_

 _You cannot change people, you can only hope._ His mother had tried to teach him patience; she had tried to warn him about his father. Perhaps if he had listened, his mother would have lived far longer than she had. It was a long time ago, however; and the hurt was nothing more than a dull throb of a memory. He remembered much of his childhood clearly, but it no longer hurt him as it once had. He had made sure of that.

Squashing the once painful thoughts, Fenrir once again turned his attention back to the woman in his arms. His mother would no doubt say that he could not change her, but Hermione was not like his father. She would change; it would just take time and patience, and a bit of perseverance. He supposed trying to reign in his temper could not hurt, either, but he did not particularly feel the need to go that far. She had a temper to match his, and he rather enjoyed stirring it up. It was a good distraction from the ever-present instincts that whispered to him to claim her. It was a hard call to resist; but there was enough of him that protested biting her now that he could live with both urges, for the time being.

Just the  _thought_  of truly making her his mate stirred his body to life. His heart began to race, and he grit his teeth at the energy that was suddenly coursing through him. A soft growl rose in his throat and he buried his face in her hair to try and stifle the sound, but it only made the problem worse. Her scent assaulted his nostrils. It was as appetizing as ever, filling his nose with her invigorating smell. He tried to hold in a groan, but the sound that did escape came across as more of a whimper.

Hermione stirred beside him at the sound, taking a moment to rub her eyes before turning in his arms to face him. Her soft brown eyes turned to meet his relaxed stare. She looked concerned; her eyes searched his for signs of the night before. He understood her concern; any normal person would not have fared as well or recovered as quickly, but he was far from normal. As her eyes continued to look for signs of injury, Fenrir considered playing the wounded routine, if only for her attention. It was against his nature to do so, however. He could not pretend to be anything but what he was.

Fenrir gave his mate a genuine smile, which she returned, albeit hesitantly. She bit her lip and continued to study his face, still appearing to look for evidence of the previous night; her soft hands rest gently on his bare chest, which had healed overnight and was free of any of the scratches that had marred it the day before. Her scent grew more tantalizing the more she awoke from her sleepy state. A low, excited growl rumbled in his throat at her proximity. Her cheeks flared to life with a bright pink blush and she opened her mouth, presumably to speak, but whatever she had started to say was lost in a yawn that caused her petite frame to arch slightly, momentarily stretching against him.

There was no space a conscious thought in the time it took Fenrir to have her flat on her back, a knee pressed between her legs. He found his senses running on overdrive once more as he surveyed her shocked face. Her lips were parted in confusion and her eyes were wide. She was nervous; apprehensive even, but she was not afraid. She was angry, certainly. He fleetingly wondered why, but did not think long on that thought, he was certain she would tell him what was frustrating her when she regained her senses. She was lying still as a lamb underneath his gaze; her breathing was shallow, but he knew she was concentrating on keeping it that way. She shrunk away from his weight, trying to appear disinterested, but the sound of her racing heart told him differently.

Fenrir chuckled softly, "What's wrong, love? Are you afraid—" he leaned down and kissed her neck, "—to touch me?"

The only response he received was a soft squeak. Her angry only seemed to grow when he laughed against her skin. He continued his assault of her soft neck, groaning quietly when she shuddered beneath his weight. He found himself fighting the urge to sink his teeth into her shoulder; he caught himself with his fangs brushing against her skin on more than one occasion. There was nothing but her in his world, but she was not his yet. Her scent had not mixed with his; he had not claimed her; he bared his fangs and moved toward her neck once more. He needed to bite her; there was nothing to stop him; nothing in his way. She was no longer afraid; she was ready. Her voice pulled him out of the haze of instincts clouding his mind.

"N—no."

* * *

Hermione felt trapped under the werewolf's gaze. How had this happened? She shrunk away from him, not liking what her body did when he touched her. She was glad she had the will to speak; as shaky as her voice had been. It had seemed to make him stop whatever he had been doing. He had come so close to biting her; his teeth were what tore her out of the stupor caused by the werewolf's proximity. She hated him. She hated that his presence excited her, her body seemed to scream at her to respond to his actions. Her brain was not functioning quickly; it was clouded and heavy, trying to sort out rationality from this  _inclination_  toward the werewolf. It was nothing. It meant nothing. She was not even attracted to him. Tears leaked out of her eyes at the lie she had been trying to drill into her own head.

She grit her teeth as his warm breath left her neck. There was so much of her that had been very content with his presence; it was hard to snap out of the reverie he had created. She was  _supposed_ to hate him; she could not enjoy it. She was not supposed to like the man's touch. She loved Ron, didn't she?

Her heart seemed to fall when she realized that maybe she did not love him as much as she thought. He was no longer in her dreams; not like he was before.

Hermione glared at the golden eyes that stared intently into hers. Her tears blurring everything but the bright color, she blinked away the troublesome liquid and regretted it immediately. She could now see the werewolf's grin, reminding her that he was more wolf than man. He had even cocked his head to the side, like a large dog. The situation may have been comical if it had been under different circumstances.

"Why, mate?" he asked, his eyes boring into hers.

"Not. Your. Mate." she seethed. She was not going to be his plaything or his mate or whatever he wanted, or thought, she was. "You're supposed to be injured!" she exclaimed. He had been so hurt the night before. It could not have been all a lie. He had barely been able to utter a word; and she did not think him capable of pretending. She had been scolded several times for pretending in front of Catia; she did not think Fenrir would hide how he was feeling, either. He could not have healed so quickly, however.  _It is impossible._

He shrugged. "I am a fast healer," he said without further explanation.

She frowned; that was all the information she would get out of him on the subject. There were many things he seemed to take for granted about what he was that were a complete mystery to anyone outside of his life. He seemed to expect her to merely take it in stride and believe every word out of his mouth. Unfortunately, he seemed to be telling the truth in this instance. He was as healthy as a teenager, and just as aroused as one, on top of it.

Hermione swallowed as the werewolf's expression changed rapidly from a teasing grin to a frown. Her heart sped up, he did not look happy any longer.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Well. You certainly aren't  _acting_  like my mate. Perhaps I should treat you like you aren't. You seem to be against the idea, in any case. Perhaps I should give you what you want." He growled the last half of his short speech; he was angry.

Hermione's eyes widened. He had gone from happy to dangerous in seconds. "W—what do you m—mean?" she stuttered, not entirely certain she wanted an answer.

The werewolf huffed, another grin appearing on his face, but the threatening tone in his voice only increased as he spoke. "If you aren't my mate, then you are just a prisoner," he flashed his large, cruel fangs at her, leaning down once more so that his warm breath caressed her face. "I can do whatever I want to a prisoner."

Hermione willed her body to stiffen as he kissed her, his canines somehow not drawing blood as they poked her lips. More tears leaked from her eyes; she did not understand why fighting him was so  _hard_. It should have been easy; he was supposed to be cruel, and evil; but she had seen there was more to him. He was only being cruel now because he was angry; Catia had warned her about his temper, but Hermione was not going to give in to the werewolf just because he was throwing a tantrum. If he was frustrated, it was his own fault.

He released her lips, his grin only fading from his face to turn into an annoyed sneer. "I suggest you decide which one you truly want to be before the next Moonstime, love; or you won't have a choice." He planted a gentle kiss on her forehead before she felt him remove his weight from her abdomen. He stood, taking a longing look at her before snarling irritably and making his way to the adjoining bathroom.

Hermione swallowed, he hadn't said it like a threat, but she knew there was a threat implied, whether it was malicious or not. What did he mean by not having a choice?  _He wouldn't_ — She did not bother to fight the tears that wanted to stream down her cheeks. He would eat her if she refused him. She knew it.  _Or—or worse—_  she refused to think about any other connotations behind his words.

She thought about the look he gave her before he had harshly shut the bathroom door. He had looked at her sadly, as though he wished it were another way. Perhaps if he could go a few solid hours without snarling at her, she might decide that he wasn't so bad. She laughed bitterly at the thought. He would not do that, not until she had accepted his absurd belief that she somehow belonged with him; something she would not do. Neither of them would change, no matter what her body told her,  _she_  was in control of her actions; not him.

A treacherous thought crossed her mind as she stared at the bathroom door. She had a vague inclination to follow him; but she shoved that thought from her head. She was  **not**  his mate. She shook her head; she had such a hard time keeping her thoughts straight when he was around; probably due to the fact that he was almost always trying to sway her to his point of view. She sighed; she had always been taught to see things from others' viewpoints. She had no trouble with a smaller, defenseless creature like the House Elves, but this werewolf was perfectly capable of caring for himself. He may have been just as deluded as the elves who  _wanted_  to work for nothing, but he had the power to make change happen.

Hermione sat for quite a while, thinking on what he had said; what he had threatened. The next Moonstime; she knew she had several weeks until then; she had time. Time to decide her fate; to choose the werewolf, be a true prisoner, or her own third choice: to escape. Escape was her only real option; all the others were unthinkable; neither of his choices had been desirable ones. There had been no real choice in his threat.

Defeated for the moment, she did not bother to hide the tears that streamed down her face again. She would sit for the moment, and then she would find a way out. She would find a way to escape.

She hoped the Order would find her soon.

 


	11. Thoughts of Home

Hermione glared at the large werewolf as he exited the bathroom, half dressed, his hair still dripping from his shower. He met her eyes with a vexed glare of his own. She saw his jaw tighten as he glanced over her; he turned to the large wardrobe on the far side of the room and grabbed a t-shirt, watching her out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly, he looked sad again, concerned eyes peeked out from behind his otherwise closed expression. The glare slid off her face, replaced by a slightly confused stare.

Fenrir walked toward her slowly; his gait determined but wary, as though she was an animal that might spook at his approach. Placing his arms on either side of her, he leaned down to her level and pressed his cheek against hers. His stubble was rough against her skin, but it was not an unpleasant sensation.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat as his warm skin rested against hers. His breath was deep and even; the heated air from his nostrils blew past her ear and warmed her neck. An involuntary shiver coursed down her spine as the warm air tickled the hair on her neck.

The werewolf chuckled quietly; his chest rumbling pleasantly as he stood above her, seemingly simply enjoying the contact. It truly was a simple touch; his cheek rested on hers in the gentlest pressure, warmth seeping from his skin to hers. It reminded her of the kind of nuzzle a dog might give, but it was so much calmer and more subdued. It was not playful, it was…intimate. He felt so warm against her; the rest of the room was suddenly lacking in any heat; all of it seemed to have been stolen by the werewolf's presence.

Hermione grabbed her own hands to keep herself from reaching out; she was so tempted to wrap her arms around the man's muscular torso. She knew how warm it must have been, and found herself craving the heat that seemed to roll off of him toward her. She was beginning to become accustomed to his presence; his warm body had been pressed up against hers so often lately; now that it was not, she felt the loss. She struggled to remain impassive as she felt the same loss as he pulled away from her.

She stared at him as he met her eyes. He let out a huff, his golden irises never leaving hers. He reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair out of her face before standing up to his full height to pull the shirt on over his head. She found it was becoming harder to look away from him. She did not even bother to hide her stare; knowing it would have been an unsuccessful endeavor. He seemed to know whenever she slipped into wanting to believe what he had been trying to tell her. Her heart began to beat rapidly as the werewolf turned to face her once more. She found herself more drawn to him as the days passed, and she was realizing that she no longer hated it. He was not as cruel as she had thought; he seemed to care for his pack very much. He was a wolf, but she was slowly realizing that did not mean he was a monster.

The witch shook her head. What was she thinking? He was only this way with those he cared for. He could be as brutal and merciless as any Death Eater; he was cold-hearted and enjoyed destroying his enemies, often in the goriest ways possible. She swallowed as he turned toward her again. His white teeth were visible behind slightly parted lips; those horrible fangs that had ripped people apart. They may have been free of blood for now, but, in that moment, that was all Hermione could see. He was always covered in the dreadful liquid. She did not want those stained hands on her; running down her arms, caressing her cheeks, holding her in a comfortable embrace, chasing away her nightmares with his warmth; keeping her warm and safe. Her thoughts deteriorated rapidly, and she was once again caught up in the desire to reach out for the strong arms of the man who chose her. Whether his tale of her being his mate was true or not; he had the option to continue to be cruel. There were many unspeakable things that Hermione could not bear to think of that he could have done; but he had been very nearly  _tame_  with her. He was not tame, and thinking so would have been a very dangerous move; but he seemed to truly want her to believe him.

Hermione looked up again into Greyback's golden eyes and realized that no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she wanted it, she would find no lie behind his fiery irises. She needed him to be lying; there had to be something else. Anything else. He would not let her go; he would never stop hunting her; if what he said was true. Staring up into his eyes, a horrifying thought struck her; she could just give in. Maybe she could believe him. Maybe she  _could_  love him. She gazed into his eyes; eyes that were no longer angry, only quietly curious. His eyes grew closer to hers as he leaned down toward her once again. As his warm breath grew closer to her, Hermione realized that she could like him; she did. She could lose herself in his eyes; she wanted to fall into them. She closed her eyes and wished she could ignore the rest and just be what he wanted her to be. As warm puffs of air caressed her lips, she wished to be what she was slowly realizing she wanted to be; his.

She leaned into him as his lips pressed against hers, her ability to control her limbs suddenly impaired. She had not felt herself reach up for his neck, but her arms had somehow found their way there regardless. The warmth she craved flooded through the gentle touch of skin. The contact was gentle and earnest; there was nothing forceful or unwanted about it. His hands moved up her arms, the loss of heat leaving goose-bumps trailing in their wake along her skin. Her stomach tingled and Fenrir's warm breath filled her nose as he moved his lips softly across hers. He had a vague smell of mint about him; mint and grass and the outdoors. It reminded her of home. She saw her parents smiling up at her from the porch of their beautiful home; the spring flowers in full bloom; a home that was safe, and welcoming. It was a home that was no longer anything but a dream. A dream that was now lost to her because of the war, because of Voldemort.

A war she had to stop. She could not help here, with him.  _Why does he smell like home?_   _He is not home._  Tears built up in her eyes and she choked on her words as they left her throat.

"No," she cried, pulling away from his touch, new tears streaming down her face;  _he can't be home_. She stood and rushed passed him. "I—I can't." She didn't care if he followed or not; she was not going to stay in that horrible place for another minute. She blew through the doors and down the hall, flying past Catia on her way out. She vaguely heard the woman call after her, but ignored her cries.

She did not hear Fenrir's footsteps behind her, but that did not mean he was not in pursuit.

Three days. That was all it took for her resolve to disappear. She was terrified of what could happen should she stay any longer; his scent still lingered in her nose, calling her back to him.

_Home._

She ran faster.

* * *

Fenrir stared at Hermione's disappearing form as she fled from his presence. He absently ran his tongue across his own lips, missing the warmth that had left with the scared young woman. She was not afraid of him; not anymore; but she was afraid of something. He was not sure what it was. She had not rejected his kiss as she had every time he had tried before, but neither had she truly returned it. He sighed at the memory of her arms coming to wrap around his neck; she had wanted it. So why had she run? She had been apprehensive, but the scent of desire had begun to overpower everything else; and then it was gone. Her luxuriant fragrance was replaced by the stench of fear, and she had fled.

Her scent had hit him like a blow to the head. She reeked with fear for the first time since she realized he was not going to hurt her. She was starting to realize he had not lied, and that scared her far more than he ever could. Fear and anger. That was all he seemed capable of eliciting from her. He knew there was more he was beginning to inspire, but she was still stuck in her own ideas about the world. She was beginning to give in, and Fenrir was starting to realize that it scared her to death. Her own feelings frightened her more than anything else, and she had given in to the fear.

Catia was right; Hermione was afraid of his world of grey. He turned and walked after her; he did not know what he would do when he caught up with her, but he was not going to let her venture out onto the moors by herself. It was inevitable; her scent was strong and he knew the surrounding area very well. She would find the door, he had no doubt of that; but it would not be hard to find her, even out on the moors. If nothing else, there was a place he knew she would be safe if only for a time. He only had to figure out how to drive her there without alerting her that those were his intentions.

Fenrir started when a female voice reached his ears as he passed through the sitting room. He had not noticed the female's presence at all, as absorbed as he was in his own thoughts.

"Are you going to follow her, Alpha?" The blonde female inquired of him; her voice shook with an emotion that Fenrir did not care to place.

"She fights so hard," he mused quietly, "She should just accept her feelings."

Catia did not reply immediately, but gave Fenrir a concerned frown. "Please, don't be angry with her. I was like her once. I forgave Mensis for what he did to me. I am not certain she will be as kind."

Fenrir gave a thoughtful nod. "I am not angry," he said, surprising himself. He was shocked this had not set off his temper and his urge to chase. For once, he could not be angry with her, he only felt pain and sadness. It was hard to remind himself that it was not a permanent state. One day she would love him, but that day was not yet.

He sighed, "Yes. I am going after her."

 


	12. In Moorning

Hermione ran across the heather covered moors; not once pausing to admire their solemn beauty. The vibrant pinks and purples of the marsh flora brushed against her legs, leaving wet leaves and debris across her jeans. She did not see the quiet grace in the rustling of the marsh grass and bracken as they left the denim on her legs soaking with morning dew. She only saw that the troublesome dew was making her unfortunate situation even more uncomfortable. Still, she ran on. The ground beneath her flying feet was uneven and so covered in flora that she often did not see holes and dips until she had stumbled through them. She did not care how often she fell; she refused to slow her pace despite her rapidly disintegrating footing. She might have been surprised she had not managed to break an ankle in one of the hidden trenches she had fallen into, but she was so preoccupied with the events that had occurred and consequently running as far away as she could, that she did not give her ankle another thought.

The moors flew past Hermione, but never seemed to change. The same terrain stretched out around her for miles; no matter how far she ran, she did not seem to make any progress. The only consolation she had was that she could no longer see the large castle behind her. She struggled against the prevalent thought that she would never escape the werewolf. She could not let him take her back; she had begun to give in to him, and there was little left of her will to fight him anymore. Those thoughts spurned her on, even as her muscles shook with every motion. She did not stop running until she was too weak to carry on; and even then, she forced her legs to carry her further. Simply standing caused her entire body to shake with effort; her exhausted muscles trembled with each step she took. Still, she walked on until the sun began to set.

As darkness crept over the moors, Hermione finally allowed her wearied body to rest. She collapsed on the soft, moss-covered ground and very quickly found sleep. It was not to last, however. Sleep may have come easily, but keeping it was like trying to hold water with her hands. As soon as she had it in her grasp, it slipped away once more. The night was quiet; peaceful, even; and it was not cold, or wet; there had been worse nights when she had been out with Harry and Ron. This time, however, her surroundings did not seem to make an impact on how she fared in the world of dreams. Her nightmares had returned, and they were worse than they had ever been. Every dream, no matter how it began, ended in screams and tears. Hermione awoke often in a panic; glancing around frantically for a familiar sight and dissolving into tears when there was no comfort to be found. There was no warmth and no safety here. Hermione mourned the loss of Fenrir's warmth; however unwanted it had been before. She was not going to go back, but she allowed herself to miss the peaceful sleep his presence brought her. She mourned the loss of her friends' presences, they would at least feel sympathy for her fears; the moors were far less understanding. It was dry that night, but the same could not be said of the following morning.

Hermione awoke with a start; she had finally caught some restful sleep as the sun was coming up over the horizon. As quickly as the world lightened, it was darkened again by thick grey clouds; it was going to rain. The witch forced herself to move her stiff muscles, willing herself to stand. Her body ached, making every movement a struggle. She forced down some impending tears and made her legs obey her. The tired limbs protested with every step, crying out for more rest, but she was determined to get as far away from Fenrir as possible; something that was turning out to be more difficult than she had wanted. She was hungry; she had not eaten since the night before. Why could she not have waited to leave until she had some time to gather some sort of food? When had she become so hot-headed? It had to be the werewolf; he seemed to set her temper off like no one else could, but, though she hated to admit it, Fenrir did not get on her nerves the way that Ron seemed to on a consistent basis. Her anger with Fenrir was different somehow.

Hermione was afraid of Fenrir, or the thought of him. The way her body seemed to gravitate toward him without thought frightened her. She had been drawn in so quickly; she had let him kiss her and had entertained the idea that she could forget it all and somehow stay with the werewolf. She felt like she had betrayed them all: Harry, Ginny, Ron, the Order; everyone. There was no destiny other than the one she chose; there was no forgetting; not until the war was over; or she was dead. Somehow, she did not think Fenrir would allow the latter option. He was certainly attached to her; which was enough by itself to cause Hermione alarm; but he also seemed to want to treat her well. He had not kept her a prisoner, in the strictest sense; he had been almost accommodating; nearly familial. That frightened her more than anything else; the thought that he could be home pervaded her mind, refusing to dislodge itself. She had been so close to giving in to his deluded fantasy that she was somehow meant for him. That was all it was; nothing more than an illusion; a farce; no more than a warped perception of reality thought up by an equally twisted man. The further away she ran, the more she tried to convince herself that he had enchanted her; that she had somehow been tricked into thinking the way she had. He was not familiar; he was not home; thinking that was crazy. Hermione was certainly not crazy, so there had to be some other explanation.

He could be home; I just have to let go. A frustratingly rebellious thought fought through the fog in her mind. No matter how she struggled to tell herself otherwise, she always came back to the same set of thoughts. She wanted it to have been a trick; she did not want to want Fenrir. If it they were not really her feelings, then it was not real at all, and she could put to rest all of her conflicted sentiments.

The clouds overhead began to drizzle, and very shortly turned from a soft mist to a roaring pour. Hermione continued to fight with her own thoughts as she struggled on through the freezing rain. She shivered, and some form of logic told her to turn around; she could become hypothermic in this weather; but there was more of her that refused to even entertain the idea of going back. She would not even turn to look in the direction she had come from. He would know she was thinking about him; his body heat chasing away her nightmares, and his lips gently pressed against her neck. She absently brought her hand up to the crook of her neck, biting back the urge to scream at the unfairness of the entire situation; she wanted to cry, to collapse on the soaked heather until…a dozen different thoughts flashed through her head; the foremost being Fenrir finding her out in the rain; in another, she merely disappeared. She could not dwell on either thought for long; she was not going to let herself waste away and die out in the moors, there had to be civilization somewhere nearby.

It was after midday when Hermione sat down to rest. The rain had ceased, if only momentarily, leaving everything as soaked as the witch was. She managed to find a rock in the midst of the drenched heather that was only mildly damp and took a seat. Her feet pounded and her body shook from the strain of her flight. Her hands trembled as she ran her fingers through her damp hair. Hunger gnawed at her belly and she was beginning to feel light-headed.

Come on, Hermione; two days without food, that's nothing. You'll be fine. She did not believe her own thoughts as she sat on the cold stone, shivering and hungry. I can't stop now. I have to find someone. She made to stand once more, her exhausted legs trembling with the effort of holding her frame aloft.

One step at a time. Right. Left. Right again. How long have I been out here? Hermione's muscles ached and she strained her mind for every clear thought. The sky darkened as she trudged on, stumbling and tripping over the uneven ground.

Two days. Hermione mused as she stared into the increasingly blackening sky. Night…dreams came at night; horrible, terrifying dreams. She could not sleep; she had to find somewhere dry, someone with a fire, anything but the moors. She counted her steps, her sight fading with the sun. She tried to focus on moving forward; she could not stop. Surely she was closing in on a road, or an inn; there had to be something out here, the moors were not so large. And there was Fenrir…Hermione did not think he would let her go so easily; he would not let her die; a thought that scared her just as much as it brought her a strange sense of comfort.

Hermione's thoughts trickled away from her as the night deepened; she had not taken note of when the rain had stopped. The night was dark and she could not see the heather underfoot; she was not certain she would be able to discern what was heather and what was rock even if she could see the ground. She was so weary. Suddenly, she stumbled, her body flying forward onto the wet ground. She fell, rolling down an embankment, becoming more soaked than she had been already. She did not land in a marsh, as her addled brain expected, but onto something harsh and pointed. She fought to sort through what had happened, grasping the rough material beneath her fingers. Small, sharp rocks poked her digits as she tried to process what it meant. Before she could reach into her mind and realize the significance of the gravel beneath her she slipped into blackness.


	13. Recovery

"Another?"

"I think so. Let's not talk now, we need to get her inside; she's shivering."

Vague voices floated in the distance as Hermione felt herself being lifted off the ground. The voices she could pick out of the haze of dehydration and exhaustion belonged to strangers. She was aware enough to know that the sounds were unfamiliar, but continued to slip in and out of consciousness. She had yet to open her eyes; her entire body was spent, and she wanted nothing more than to be warm and fed and rested.

All manner of thoughts floated through Hermione's fogged mind in the brief moments of consciousness that occurred. She found thoughts of home, and of her parents; thoughts of Harry and Ron and their seemingly impossible quest; thoughts of Fenrir and the other werewolves; but as soon as she thought she had grasped ahold of a thought, it seemed to disappear like smoke. It was as though she was trying to read words that were racing by too fast to absorb more than just a vague inclination of what was written. Nothing seemed solid. She could not grasp her thoughts any more than she could the ground that seemed to be rocking beneath her. Back and forth. Back and forth. Sometimes she managed to understand some of the words that she heard, but they were as difficult to hold onto as her thoughts. She wondered if she was dreaming; the way that she was unable to comprehend what was going on reminded her of some dreams. Dreaming would have been a nice change; she had begun to despise sleep, knowing that nothing but nightmares awaited her. Thoughts of Fenrir trickled into her mind as she tried to grasp anything solid. Amber floated across her cloudlike vision; the only color in the sea of fog. Figures seemed to dart around in a swirl of white, none staying long enough to recognize.

Hermione wandered across the fog-filled landscape, hearing both familiar and strange voices as she went, but nothing to hold onto; until the cry of a wolf rung out in her fevered mind. She knew that sound; it was safe. It was unwanted, somehow, but she knew it was safe. She followed the cry, trying to brush aside the fog and the distractions. She had found something to focus on; and it would lead her out of her confusion. A figure darted ahead of her, never going quite out of sight as Hermione sluggishly followed it through the mists. She did not know how long she followed the wolf, but the voices she could hear were becoming clearer, and the fog seemed to lessen as she went. Sometimes, everything disappeared, and Hermione would once again find herself wandering in a sea of thoughts and ideas that were just out of reach; but the wolf always came back, and each time it led her further out of the fog.

The fog began to recede, and blackness once again flowed through Hermione's mind; but this was a peaceful dark, a restful end to her aimless wanderings. She embraced it, and allowed her thoughts to still as she once more was overcome.

* * *

Hermione opened her eyes sleepily, the smell of warm breakfast filled her nostrils, and the sound of bacon sizzling in a fry pan was all she heard. She had never been so hungry before; even when they were fending for themselves in the Forest of Dean, she had not so acutely felt the pain of hunger that overtook her.

The sight that greeted her was as warm as her brief imaginings of it had been. She blinked several times to clear her vision and took in the resulting picture. A warmly toned ceiling was above her head; it was a friendly color, inviting and familiar. The color continued down the walls, where they were visible. A large fireplace was featured on the side of the room that Hermione could see, a cheery flame burning in the space.

She heard footsteps and tried to sit up, but she was unable to push herself out of the position she was in. She shook with the effort of trying to sit herself up; she was quite weak.

"Easy, lass, you've been through quite an ordeal."

Hermione relaxed as an unfamiliar face came into view. She did not recognize him; something that immediately relieved her. An unfamiliar setting meant Fenrir had not followed her; and had most likely not hurt anyone to get to her. She did not have the energy to reply to the man, and merely nodded. Having no other option, the witch observed him as he moved about the small room. He was not a large man, but he looked strong. Hermione assumed he was a muggle; there was nothing around that she saw to indicate otherwise. He appeared to be middle-aged; his brown hair receding, but not yet gray. His face bore only the mildest of wrinkles, and he had a spring in his step as he puttered around the kitchen. He seemed like a kind, helpful sort of man and Hermione could not help but like him.

"'Name's Cecil," he said. He walked back over to where Hermione was laying, carrying something in his hands.

Hermione recognized the rounded shape of a bowl and spoon as the man neared her. Her stomach growled loudly as the smell of broth reached her nose. She heard the sound of wood scraping across the floor as Cecil pulled a chair up next to her. She wanted to ask him what had happened to her; she remembered running through the moors in the rain, but she did not remember ever running into any sort of inhabited area. She opened her mouth to speak, but the only sound that came out was cracked and dry.

"'Ere." Cecil held a spoonful of broth up to her lips, which Hermione eagerly received. "Dunno where you come from, but the lads and I found ya night a'fore last on the road. Worked through quite the fever, jus' broke this morning. You haven' kept anything down since you been here; water's been the only thing we've been able to give you. All things considered, you're lookin' much better now." The man gave her a warm smile as he continued to hand feed her.

"Thank you," she managed, her throat soothed by the warm liquid. Her voice was mildly cracked with a few days' disuse, but she was starting to feel better.

"No problem at all, lass. Couldn' let a young woman starve on my doorstep."

Hermione nodded. The broth was soon gone, and Cecil bid her to sleep again. She found rest easily, as exhausted as her body was, and drifted back off to sleep.

* * *

Hermione woke many times throughout the day, each time eating and drinking a bit more. By the evening, she felt well enough to stand. Cecil had not allowed her to walk without assistance, but she did get a tour of the cozy living space. The man ran a small business that sounded very much like a medieval style inn. Cecil described it as a bed and breakfast, but Hermione thought it was more like a cross between an inn and a tavern. The local farmers would often visit and pay for a drink or two and enjoy each other's company. The moors could be a lonely place.

Hermione soon learned why the locals had been coming every night; some sort of calamity had destroyed the only bridge across Whitensdale Beck. It had been a few days since the accident, but no one could get across the ravine. The younger men in the surrounding areas were all pitching in to help repair the bridge, but it would be several days before Hermione could get anywhere by vehicle. Cecil had been incredibly vague on the details, which made Hermione mildly suspicious. She berated herself for not believing the man; her paranoia was getting the best of her. He probably  _didn't_  know what had happened to the structure; but it was also odd that the phone lines had gone out, while the electricity remained.

_He's not a Death Eater, Hermione,_ she told herself,  _and he's been nothing but kind to you._  She was stuck here; so close to freedom, but so far from where she needed to be. She hoped Fenrir would not come for her before the bridge was fixed. She had little doubt that he would find her; he seemed to have no trouble following her through the Forest of Dean; how much easier would it be for him to follow her through the moors; his home. She resolved not to dwell on the man any longer, but that night it proved to be more difficult that she had imagined.

Cecil was incredibly accommodating and put enough wood on the fire to keep it burning well into the night; leaving the small living space comfortably warm. Despite the fire and the soft, warm blanket covering her, Hermione was cool. She missed the werewolf's warmth and how easily sleep came when she settled up against him. It took some time for her to fall into a real sleep, and once she had, it was not long to last. With the loss of Fenrir's presence came the return of Hermione's nightmares. They were not as bad as they had been before, in some ways, but they were worse in others. Fenrir haunted her dreams that night. She watched as Bellatrix tortured him, she saw him killed by Voldemort, or even worse, killed by the Order. Each time she had been powerless to stop it; each time she had woken in a cold sweat, unbidden tears lining her face; and each time she angrily wiped away the tears before willing herself back to sleep, starting the cycle over again.

_I do not care for him; my brain is just processing everything._  Hermione ignored the subtle aching in her chest that longed to see the werewolf again. " _Duty is heavier than a mountain,"_  Hermione could not remember exactly where she had heard that phrase before, perhaps one of her father's books had held the quote; it did not matter. She had to stop this war, it was her responsibility; to her friends and to the rest of the wizarding world. She had the power to make a change, to help turn the tide, and she could not do that with Fenrir.

_Fenrir_ , she thought wistfully, the memory of their last encounter permeating her mind. She caught her thoughts dwelling on him often, especially at night. Her dreams had made her realize that she would never think of him the same way she had in the past; as much as she wanted to forget the side he had shown her, she would never be able to remove those images from her head. Fenrir would never again be merely the monster she had believed he was. She wondered briefly if she could fight him if it came down to it; if he fought her like every other person who opposed him then she could fight back, but she knew he treated her differently than anyone else. She just had to stay away from him.

Easier said than done.


	14. Care and Consequence

Fenrir followed Hermione across the wet moors of northern Yorkshire. Her scent was the only new one in the area; making it easier to follow than it would have been were there others around. He would have been able to track her anywhere, regardless, but her scent was clear; lighting up her path as surely as if there were arrows pointing him in the correct direction. He knew he had to keep his distance; he was not going to drag her back like he was tempted to. He was not going to let his temper get the best of him this time. She needed space. She needed to know he would give it to her; but he had to make sure she was safe first. It was his fault she was out here; and he knew it.

He had the feeling she would run eventually, no matter how she felt. She needed time to adjust; he knew they would both suffer for it and so was reluctant to let her have that time. She would come around without it, but never completely. Three days was not long enough; he was surprised she had come along as far as she had. She was starting to believe the things he had said; but only after she had seen proof. Proof was all she required to believe what he said, and there had been glimpses of it in her responses to him, but nothing solid enough that she could relax and just give in. He wanted her to come with him without her need for proof. There were some things that had no reason behind them. She could not break down his anatomy and explain the way werewolves worked like so many would like to. Werewolves were as mysterious as many other magical creatures, even to themselves. Fenrir had aided many in adjusting to the transition; but that did not mean he could explain how it worked; it just was. He could not give her the proof she would require to believe him, he just had to take care of her until she realized the truth herself. Something she was making increasingly difficult.

As Fenrir continued to follow the brunette witch's trail, he began to notice her faltering steps. He grimaced whenever he came across a place where she had stumbled and fallen into the heather. It would not have hurt her, but it could not have been comfortable; the heather was always damp.

He closed in on Hermione as darkness began to fall. He was not close enough to alert her to his presence, but his keen eyes easily picked out her form in the darkness. He waited patiently, his teeth clamped together, as she found sleep on the cold ground. Rain was coming; he could smell it gathering in the air. He quietly stalked closer to the place Hermione had laid on the ground; he could at least protect her while she slept. He whispered the incantation for the imperturbable charm and cast the spell over Hermione. She would at least stay dry for the night, if nothing else. He did not sleep at all that night; he watched over her, resisting the urge to pull her into his arms at every cry she made. Her nightmares were worse than they had been last time; when her cries grew to be unbearable he restrained himself to resting a hand on her. She would quiet for a time, and he knew he could not be so near when she woke up the next morning.

The night came and went with little incident, Fenrir noticed Hermione stirring as the sun rose and quietly moved away from her. He lifted the spell he had placed on her the night before; she would be angry if she knew he had followed her. She would not want him to help her, no matter how much she needed it.

The second day was worse. When it was not drizzling, it was pouring, and still Hermione trudged on through the moors. She was so determined; he'd give her that. He admired her resolve, as much as it irked him. She was soaking wet, and he knew she had not eaten anything, but still she continued on. He watched her trail as it became more crooked and uneven as the day turned once again into night.

Fenrir sighed when he found Hermione collapsed on the ground, her petite form stretched across a gravel road. He wasted no time, quickly dropping to his knees beside her.

"Why are you so stubborn, mate?" he said quietly, "You could kill yourself out here." He lifted her into his arms, cradling her limp form against his chest. Her scent filled his nostrils and he cringed, her usual flowered scent was covered by the faint odor of heat. He put a hand to her forehead and started, her skin was hot.

"Hermione," he sighed gently. Why had she put herself in harm's way to get away? He knew she was not as afraid of him as she pretended to be. There was something else, something she had not spoken to him about; something she thought was more important…

The war. Fenrir huffed. She cared a great deal about those boys she considered friends; even that horrid Weasley boy. He knew she would not be able to rest until the war was over and they were safe.

"Damn it," he growled quietly. He wanted to whisk her away from it all; but she would never forgive him for that. He tossed several ideas around in his head as he held the unconscious girl close to him. There was nothing he could do about it now; he harbored the idea that their circumstances might change, but there were many things he was unwilling to stoop to. As much as he wished for Hermione to be on his side, as much as he cared for her and was quickly growing to feel even more than that, he was not going to compromise the safety of the entire pack just for her.

He wished she would let him protect her the way his instincts urged him to; they screamed through his head to take her back home; where she would be safe. He knew he would not get the result he desired, however. He let out a soft huff of air at the situation.

" _Expecto_ _Nuncio_ ," he muttered, pulling out his wand. A large grey wolf erupted from his wand and raced down the gravel road. Fenrir nodded in satisfaction before turning his attention back to his mate. She stirred slightly as he spoke to her.

"I'm sorry, love. I will give you some time; but you know I cannot stay away. This is the way I am," he kissed her forehead, the heat coming off her fevered brain bringing a worried crease to the werewolf's brow. "I cannot change that; even for you." He stroked a rough hand through her wet hair; the fact that she was still soaking wet somehow clicking in his brain. He cast a quick drying spell over her and continued to run his fingers through her hair.

It was not long before he heard the sound of footsteps crunching the small rocks on the road. Fenrir did not turn his head; he recognized the man's smell as he approached.

"I got your message, sir."

"Thank you for coming so quickly. You have always been faithful."

The man crouched next to Fenrir, "She's sick, isn't she?"

Fenrir nodded. Sweat was beading on Hermione's forehead. "She left without thinking. She overexerted herself."

"Can you heal her?"

Fenrir glanced at the man, "Healing was never my specialty. She needs time away from me, anyway. I frighten her."

Fenrir's companion laughed softly, "I would 'ave been more surprised if she was not afraid." He looked more carefully at the young woman in the werewolf's arms. "I'm glad you found her. My father always spoke of you; there was always a pack, always stories of the werewolves, but then there was you. Always at the top, but always alone..."

Fenrir growled, causing the man to hold up his arms in submission.

"I mean no disrespect, sir. I jus' meant I was glad you will not 'ave to be that way any longer."

Fenrir sighed, "Always watching out for me, eh?"

"I wouldn' say that, sir."

"Your grandfather certainly took up that charge."

"'e was older than you were. I have never been. I've jus' been 'ere to help."

The werewolf grunted good-naturedly, "Your family has always been helpful. I am glad you decided to carry on that legacy, Cecil."

"Always here when you need me, sir," the middle-aged man said sincerely. "I'll call the lads up. We need to get her inside. You'd probably best be gone when they arrive."

Fenrir nodded and stood, gently placing Hermione back onto the ground, "Thank you, Cecil. Don't let her leave. It's too dangerous out there right now."

"Yes, sir."

"She will have nightmares." The werewolf said, turning back toward the moors.

"They always do."

* * *

Yorkshire. The snatchers had been paired with the Death Eaters to search the area surrounding York. Fenrir's heart clenched when he realized Hermione would be heading straight into the city when it was swarming with Death Eaters. He had to make sure she stayed where she was until the danger passed. He was not certain he could save her again; especially if the Lestrange woman got ahold of her. That woman made his hackles rise; almost more than the Dark Lord. She was insane. He never wanted Hermione to have to deal with the demented witch; she stressed about too much as it was.

He wished she would just let him hide her away until the war was over. She was a brilliant witch; but he was unwilling to lose her. He did not want her to risk her life. He had spent so long without her; he could not let her go.

No. She could not leave the moors. Something would happen to her; he knew it. There was only one way out by vehicle; and that was easily fixed. Cecil could handle the rest.

* * *

It had worked, for a time. Fenrir had underestimated the locals. They had taken them less than a week to rebuild the bridge. Those muggles were quite resourceful. Hermione was determined; he knew she would leave Cecil's care as soon as she was able. It had been six days since he had let her go. It may not have been a long enough time for Hermione; but he was tired of waiting. Fenrir had been irritable all week. He had snapped Mensis' head off multiple times, and was grateful the younger wolf knew him well enough to know when to steer clear. There was not very much of an occasion for it, thankfully; Fenrir was gone most days with the Snatchers. He took out his aggression on whatever poor soul happened to get in his way.

_Fenrir did not bother to pull out his wand as an auror apparated in front of him. Rage boiled up through his veins. He had allowed his instincts to take over his actions; it was easier not to think. He jumped on the wizard, ripping out his throat. Blinded by his bloodlust, he tore into the man further. His instinct-clouded mind reveled in the sensation; hot blood poured over his lips and ran down his chin. He looked up for another target; only to hear the mad cackle of Bellatrix Lestrange._

" _Ooh! Little wolfie's got quite the appetite today!"_

 _He snarled at her; but even through the haze of his instincts, he knew he could not fight her, not today. He continued to stalk the city with the Death Eaters; letting his mind go, being guided by nothing but impulse. Somewhere in the back of his mind was a reminder that_ she _would not approve of his actions, but he ignored the sensation. Only by being ordered about like a dog could he guarantee his pack safety; there was no other option. He cringed at the thought of her disapproval, but he knew what had to be done. They did not control him fully; he still made his own decisions. He was not a_ pet _._

_Fenrir did not even hear the screams of the next wizard who intercepted his path; he was not going to listen to the Dark Lord's every call. If he had to be leashed, then he would let them know that it was no guarantee they could summon him as they saw fit. There were other things he had to do; the Dark Lord could not hurt the pack without losing Fenrir's support. He needed him to win the war. He would survive without his help for a few days. He had been away for far too long._

_It was time to get back to his mate._


	15. Rest

 

The sky was dark; the moon nowhere to be seen. The moors were quiet, as they often were; only the occasional chirp of a cricket could be heard on the rolling hills. Cecil's establishment, however, was far removed from the peaceful world of the Yorkshire Moors. The inn was loud tonight. Nearly every farmer within walking distance was present in the small tavern. Everyone had begun to pitch in on the bridge work, and headed straight for Cecil's after it got too dark to work safely. Hermione had heard it was nearly finished; she was amazed at the speed with which they had reconstructed the bridge. It should not have surprised her; they all depended on that road to get their goods in and out. It was their livelihood; it had to be repaired quickly.

Hermione had been helping Cecil run the bar, as the downed bridge blocked her only way to leave. She insisted that she help somehow, she wanted to repay him for helping her. She could have died out in the wilderness if it had not been for him. It was the least she could do. During her time serving the locals, she had gotten to know a few of the farmers; they were all very nice. There was one man, however, that caught Hermione's attention. He took to sitting off by himself, usually with a book, away from the cheerily loud crowd of patrons.

The man had been quiet at first, almost brooding, but Hermione had gotten through his demeanor with a cheerful smile. His name was Jules Sauveterre, he was a French zoologist and he was there to study some of the indigenous fauna. He was specifically interested in the hares that made their homes on the moors. There were some forest patches in the area, but not enough to support the large rodents; he was curious to find out how they could live in such an inhospitable environment. He had briefly chatted with some of the local farmers about their sheep herds that graze on the moors, but he was less interested in them. He did ask a few questions about animals disappearing; and the farmers would nod.

"Sheep aren't always that smart, lad; and they all seem to get into trouble at the same time."

Hermione liked the man quite a bit; he was nice, once she got him to open up a little. He offered more stimulating company than the others did. They were wonderful and interesting people, until they were full of alcohol. Hermione tended to stay clear of them once they had consumed a round or two. They were not especially unpleasant, but she preferred to not be around them. She often found herself in a quiet corner by the bar; Jules would join her some evenings, and tonight he was waiting for her. He shot her a smile from across the room as she finished delivering her tray of drinks.

Hermione smiled at the Frenchman as she leaned up against the counter. The usual customers had been given their drinks and would remain out of her hair for the time being. She chatted with him for a while; his quiet attitude had melted away over the past few days, and he was now quite friendly with her. He was not presumptuous; in fact, he was quiet chivalrous, but Hermione did not even think about his attitude as more than simple friendship. He was kind, and she appreciated it. It seemed to take the edge off her nerves. She had not slept well since she had recovered, and was worn out because of her insomnia. Talking to someone seemed to ease the tension, but it was not enough.

_Fenrir…_ His presence would take it all away. Her heart sunk at the thought of the werewolf. She missed more than just his uncanny ability to chase her nightmares away. She loathed admitting it, even if it was only to herself, but it was true. She turned her thoughts away from the man quickly, instead focusing on the conversation she was having with Jules.

Hermione was halfway through answering Jules' question about her friends, excluding several key details, when she froze mid-sentence. A voice wafted over the noise of the small crowd of locals. It was not loud, but it seemed to mask all the other voices. It may as well have been a shout for how well Hermione had heard it. She closed her eyes and tried to compose herself. _His_ voice just seemed to fill her ears more when her eyes were closed.

"Hermione? Are you alright?"

The witch started when she felt the man's hand on her shoulder. She had unconsciously gripped the counter; her hold was so tight her knuckles were turning white. She was just imagining things, it was only because she had been thinking about him. He was not really here. She glanced up at the door, just to be sure. Her eyes grew wide at the sight. There he was; Fenrir Greyback behaving civilly in a roomful of obnoxious muggles.

"I—I just—" Words seemed to escape her. She only had two thoughts; the first was to run as fast as she could in the opposite direction, the second was a much stronger urge: to run across the room and into Fenrir's arms.

Hermione continued to strangle the countertop, keeping her feet firmly in their place. She refused to look at the werewolf's face as he strode up to the bar, but she saw his smirk out of the corner of her eye. She also did not miss the glare he sent at the Frenchman's hand either.

"Good evening." Jules said curtly, not removing his hand from Hermione's shoulder.

Hermione tried not to sigh; the man was very brave, but it was not his job to protect her. Fenrir had no interest in him, and Hermione wanted to keep it that way. She could feel the werewolf's eyes on her. She mumbled something about making sure the soup was not burning and rushed into the kitchen. She leaned against the cool stone wall, trying to clear her head. She knew in the back of her mind that he was not far behind her, and she did not have long. It did not bother her as much as she wished it would.

The sound of Fenrir's footsteps came seconds after Hermione had settled against the far wall. She refused to look at him as he neared her. The overhead light cast his shadow over her as he stopped in front of her. He stood above her for a moment, neither speaking nor moving closer.

"Hello, mate," he said softly.

"H—Hello," Hermione replied, still staring at her feet. She could feel her body relax at his mere proximity.

Fenrir's fingers cupped her chin and gently lifted it up so she was staring at him in the eyes. Hermione started at the sight that greeted her. Fenrir's normally vivid amber eyes had been replaced by a bright blue. She stared at him. He would not have charmed his eyes to fit in, he was too proud.

"What happened?" she asked quietly; allowing herself to fall into the release of her worries. She did not want to fight it; she was tired.

He gave her a genuine smile, albeit slight, and shrugged, "It's the new moon. Her power is gone for the night."

Hermione surveyed the werewolf. He looked tired. He did not have the same haggard appearance that Lupin would have after the full moon, but he was not as lively as normal. She had not thought about how the absence of the moon would affect him. This would have been the day Remus would have been the most energetic, but it seemed to be the opposite with Fenrir, just like everything else she had learned about him.

The brunette witch leaned into the werewolf's gentle touch when he brushed his lips against her forehead. His rough stubble rubbed her skin, bringing a sense of comfort to her. Warmth radiated off his skin; she would be able to sleep tonight if she stayed with him. She longed for a good night's sleep, but more than that; she had missed him. It was unfathomable to her why that was, but it was true. She gave in to the urge to touch him when he removed his lips and pulled her into a gentle but firm hug.

"Fenrir…" she began, but stopped when she heard him sigh contentedly beside her. She smiled at the sound of his name on her tongue; she had even missed saying it.

"Yes, love?"

"I—I—" She did not know what she had meant to say; her eyelids were growing heavy. Her whole body seemed to be sinking; falling into a sleepy state. She just wanted to listen to him speak again. His warm voice comforted her further, the meaning of his words lost in the fog of her exhausted mind.

* * *

Fenrir did not care whether his mate was protesting or apologizing; he was just glad to have her in his arms again. She was probably protesting his presence, but she was becoming less vehement about it that she had been before. She did not smell angry, or afraid, but confused. She was tired, probably more than he was, and he knew it was influencing her decisions. Her entire body was giving in to him as her defenses fell. He leaned down to brush his lips against her neck, pulling her further into his arms. He never wanted to let her go again.

"I missed you," he said quietly, surprised he had let those words escape his lips at all; but he had promised himself that he would not pretend to be anything but what he was. That included how he felt, as hard as it was to admit some things, even to her.

He was not upset that she did not reply. He knew she had missed him as well. She had not pulled away or been fearful at all. He could smell her longing the moment he walked into Cecil's inn. It was not a scent he could describe, but he had known what it meant. It had only become stronger on her until he had pulled her into his embrace. Her body was nearly limp; she was leaning heavily on him for support.

"Fenrir…" she mumbled, her syllables slurring together. "I'm so sleepy."

He chuckled softly. "Of course you are. You haven't slept well have you?"

She shook her head sluggishly, "I tried. I—" a yawn interrupted her speech, "wasn't so tired a minute ago."

He smiled at her fondly, "You weren't so relaxed a minute ago, Hermione. You were so tense; it's not a wonder you couldn't sleep."

"I didn't ask for this!" She struck out at him weakly, not accomplishing anything but resting her hand against his chest.

Fenrir gently grabbed her hand, amused at her attempt to carry on by herself, even as she was falling asleep in his arms. He lifted her off the ground, ignoring her small, mumbled protests. She needed sleep; real sleep. He was not going to let her deny herself that. He was going to take care of her. For once, his instincts coincided with his will again. He carried her to the room Cecil had allowed her to stay in and laid her down on the bed gently. She was sound asleep by the time he let her go.


	16. Hesitations

"Hermione?"

The brunette stretched out, yawning. Someone was calling her softly. She smiled; she had slept so well that night. The last time she had slept so soundly had been over a week ago. She had forgotten how warm Fenrir was. For once, she had not even thought about being cold; the werewolf was a marvelous heater. A heat that was gone from her now, he had probably gotten up before her; he may have been tired, but Hermione could not have stayed awake the previous night if there was a battle going on. She was grateful that was not the case; she had needed the sleep. Rubbing the sleep from her face, she rolled over and opened her eyes, expecting to see Fenrir's face. She jumped when Jules' features greeted her instead. He was hunched over her bed, whispering her name urgently.

"What? Where's Fenrir?" She mumbled quietly, still groggy enough to not fully comprehend what was going on.

"He's been gone about an hour," Jules said, his face filled with concern. "The bridge is fixed. We can take my car; quickly, before he comes back."

Hermione stared blankly at the Frenchman from a moment; at least he was brief. Why do we need a car? Realization suddenly dawned on her at his urgency; he must have misunderstood Fenrir's intentions the night before. He thought she was in danger. Fenrir had just wanted to be near her; and she him, albeit reluctantly. The witch bit her lip; she was suddenly conflicted about leaving again. Fenrir would be upset; she did not want to hurt him, but there were others than may be hurt if she stayed, she was certain of it. I have to go. Harry is more important. The world is more important.

How are you going to save the world if you can't even sleep, Hermione? The witch forced her thoughts down and jumped out of bed before she could convince herself otherwise and threw on her shoes. "Let's go."

It was only a few minutes before the pair was in Jules' small blue car, cruising out of the moors, toward civilization. Hermione sat in the passenger seat, her hands in her lap. She felt guilty for running from the werewolf once more. She had left him a note scribbled on a small piece of paper, but she knew it would not make a difference. Guilt thumped in her chest with every beat of her heart, building a sickening sensation in her gut. The shadow of a werewolf's howl echoed through her mind as they drove from the small inn. Her heart clenched; she knew he would not stop until he found her again. He would chastise her for making life hard on herself, and on him. She tried not to laugh at the thought; their lives were already hard. Still, he had looked so relieved the night before. She began to wonder if the reason he was so adamant about being near her was partially to keep her safe. Could it be possible that he truly cared for her? Or was he only caring for himself and his selfish desires? She appreciated the thought, if that's what it was, but she could not stay and be coddled by the werewolf as well as continue to aid Harry. If she decided to believe that he truly had many of the instincts of a wolf, her safety would be extremely high on his list of priorities. She did not believe it, but she knew he did, and that was enough to make her ponder the idea. It did not matter, in any case. They were on opposite sides of the war, and she knew Fenrir was right; the Order would have a hard time allowing the werewolves to run free. Perhaps if she could convince them... No. The werewolves can take care of themselves. They do not need my help. Fenrir can do his own negotiating. It was his fault, in any case; it had to be. Remus said he had gone to talk to the werewolves, what other werewolves were there in Britain?

A quiet thought popped into her head, a recollection of something Harry had said to her after a conversation with Remus: "I guess Greyback has all the other werewolves scared to go against him, so they won't listen to Remus. They all think he'll give them a better life, but he's just a bloodthirsty monster."

At the time, Hermione had agreed with him, but now, she wondered how wise Remus had been to try to convert the pack under Fenrir's nose. Fenrir would have known what was going on, he must have great trust for those in the pack. It would have been better for Lupin to go straight to the Alpha. Realization hit Hermione; Remus was scared of Greyback; that had to be the only explanation. She knew Remus well enough to know that he would not let hate get in the way of the mission; fear, however, had always been a struggle for her former professor. It had taken him ages to agree to let Tonks into his life because he was afraid of hurting her; he was afraid of himself, why would he not be afraid of Fenrir?

Hermione frowned, suddenly wondering if the entire situation could have been avoided if Remus had spoken to the Alpha directly. She sighed, of course not, Remus was right to be afraid of Fenrir; she knew the larger man hated Lupin. Her frown turned into a small smile when she recalled that just mentioning the name of Remus Lupin, would put Fenrir in a foul mood; just like when a dog was placed in a room with something it didn't like. How very wolfish of him.

"Where do you need to go?" Jules interrupted her thoughts.

"London," she replied without hesitation. There ought to be someone there who could help her. The truth was that she didn't have a plan; a realization that brought the werewolf to mind again. Grimmauld Place might be safe, but it was a chance.

"Hermione," the man said softly, after they had spent some time in silence. "Are you alright?"

"Yes-" she said immediately.

"You did not look fine last night. I don't mean to overstep my boundaries, but I think you should go to the police."

Hermione smiled, "No. I'm not in danger. There's just something I have to do."

The man eyed her skeptically. "That is not what I saw."

"I promise you, he wouldn't hurt me. I just—He can't be a part of it." She said. She knew it was a lousy answer, but she could not tell Jules anything more without raising more questions than he already had.

"You aren't pregnant are you?"

Hermione's eyes widened; what a question! "No. No. Nothing like that." She countered the Frenchman's suspicions quickly, and remembering how Fenrir had been right before she had fled, she turned toward the window as a blush crept up her cheeks. Children...Cubs, as Catia called them. That was a thought that had not entered her mind before. As long as he kept his temper in check, Fenrir might make a good father. Hermione shook her head; that was nonsense. Had she truly been considering having children with the werewolf? She had gone mad. Her sleep schedule may have been inexplicably tied to the werewolf, but nothing else was. She made her own decisions. Nevertheless, Hermione allowed a small smile to creep onto her face at the memory of Fenrir playing with the cubs in the nursery. It had seemed natural; like they were nothing but what Fenrir had said: wolves.

"What was that?" Jules asked quietly.

Hermione started, she did not realize she had spoken. "Wolves," she repeated quietly.

Jules laughed, "Not here in England. Not for a long time." There was something in his eyes, however, that made Hermione suddenly suspicious. Perhaps this man was not as honest about his intentions as she originally thought.

"I heard you asking the farmers about them."

"There are always people reporting sightings, but there is no evidence to back up what people say." The man replied, a little too quickly.

"Particularly around York?" Hermione questioned, trying to appear innocent.

Jules frowned, "Yes."

"You weren't really studying rabbits, were you?"

"Well, yes and no. I've been curious for a long time about the tales I've heard about the monstrous wolves spotted around these parts, but I could not go off chasing fairy tales. I really am looking into the hares; the wolves are a...hobby of mine."

Hermione glanced at the man; he had a faraway look in his eyes as he spoke. There was more to his story than he was telling her, but she decided not to push the issue. She was hiding enough herself. Everyone had secrets; there was no exception to that. Even Fenrir would not tell her everything, but perhaps there were some things he did not fully understand. Her thoughts drifted from the werewolf to the Order to happy days at Hogwarts.

They continued in silence. Hermione did not feel up to her normal conversations with the man. Not that he was talking much either.

Two hours later, they entered the town of York. As they neared the center of the city, Jules' car began to make a putting sound. He glanced at Hermione worriedly. "That is not normal."

She nodded. Hermione immediately wondered if it was some sort of sabotage. She quickly dismissed the idea. Wizards knew nothing of vehicles, and there did not seem to be anyone else interested in the man. It must have been a mechanical problem. She hoped that they could make it to somewhere safe before the car died.

Looking back into her years as a witch, Hermione realized she had never truly been safe, as long as she was friends with Harry, she was in danger. She had always been able to hold her own, but she often did not feel like she belonged. Catia had made her feel so welcome, and everyone else had simply accepted her. Fenrir was overbearing, but she knew he cared.

He was the Alpha; he expected to be obeyed. He had been fairly patient with her, looking back on his actions, and how little she had respected his authority. He consoled her when she was upset, or left her alone when she demanded it. She tried not to smile at the thought of the large man's wolfish disposition, but failed. She glanced out of the window, sadly regarding her decision to leave the safety of the werewolf pack. She silently wondered how her leaving affected him; surely it was not that bad. How many years had he gone without her? He would be fine. She swallowed as she recalled the one fact she remembered from a particular primary school lesson: wolves mate for life.

With that final thought, Jules' car gave one last sputter and died, coasting to a stop next to an empty parking lot.


	17. Invoiced and Outmatched

Four days.

Four days stuck in York.

Four days too many.

The quaint city was eerily silent. The sun was high, brightening what should have been busy streets; it was a weekend, there should have been tourists admiring the sights, there should have been families out walking, but there was nothing. Sometimes, Hermione would catch a glimpse of an animal or, on rarer occasions, a pedestrian, often with their heads down, hurrying to wherever they were going; as if whatever plagued the city was no longer afraid of the light.

Jules thought it best that Hermione stay inside her hostel room. He had heard rumors of gang activity, and suspected that was the cause of the quiet streets.

Hermione knew better, however. Even the muggles were feeling the stress of the war. They had realized that the recent disasters were not merely freak accidents; they knew someone or something was behind them. They just didn't know what. They attributed the attacks to many things; gangs, terrorists, rival governments, even aliens; but there was no mention of magic or anything supernatural. She absentmindedly wondered if the Ministry of Magic had anything to do with that. She had grown tired of the news reports very quickly after turning on the television; nothing had changed, at least from a muggle perspective. People were still dying, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

_And I'm stuck here._

The witch sighed and sat up straight. She stretched as she lifted her tired body out of the chair she had been sitting in. A yawn escaped her mouth, and she quickly shot a hand up to cover it. She had not slept well since the night of the new moon; when Fenrir had been next to her. Hermione let out a huff of frustration; she knew this was going to happen, and still she ran. She frowned; she did not miss him, only her sleep schedule. Hermione tried not to think about the werewolf, it only seemed to make her irritable. Sometimes she would catch herself thinking fondly of him; something that only further seated her in annoyance. Fenrir may have been different than she thought, but all the stories were still true. He still killed people; he still followed You-know-who. She couldn't be fond of him. He may not have been a monster by nature, but in her mind, he had chosen to be one.

Hermione forced down another sigh, she was not a simpering idiot, and she refused to act like one. She was not going to allow herself to feel guilty for leaving. She had a job to do, and he could not be part of it. She doubted Fenrir would even allow her to help Harry if she asked him. He would have been too concerned for her safety. She would have been touched if the situation had been different, but as it was, his actions only infuriated her.

_I cannot even think rationally when that stupid wolf is around—_

Her thoughts were interrupted by a swift knock. She did not have time to reply to the summons before the door swung open, admitting Jules into the small room.

"Afternoon, Hermione."

"And to you."

He cleared his throat, seemingly embarrassed about something; "I—I wanted to ask you about something."

Hermione indicated that he should take the chair across from her. Jules hastily sat down, but looked no more at ease than he had standing.

The Frenchman opened and closed his mouth several times before he decided to speak. "That man, Fenrir, you called him. Who was he?"

Hermione bit her lip; she did not have a good answer for the man. She had been afraid of him asking questions like this since they had left Cecil's inn. "He's—I don't know how to explain it."

"He's important to you." It was not a question.

Hermione nodded slightly.

"Will he come after you?"

She nodded again.

"Is he—" the man lowered his voice and leaned toward her, "one of them?"

Hermione frowned, confused. "One of whom?" She wondered if he meant one of the terrorists, someone who was wreaking havoc on the world. If so, the answer was yes; but she was not certain that was what the man was implying. She wracked her brain, trying to think of what else her companion could mean. His restatement caught her by surprise.

"One of the wolves."

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. There was no way Jules could have known about the werewolves. He was just a muggle. Her mind kicked into overdrive and her heart pounded against her chest. Her voice shook as she spoke again, trying to appear ignorant. "What do you mean? Wolves?"

The seconds that passed before Jules answered seemed like an eternity.

"The wolves. My sister would talk about them sometimes." Jules closed his eyes, recollecting something from his past. "I could never get much out of her, but she would talk about a place north of York where there was a group of people. She only ever referred to them as 'the wolves', but I knew they were people. I thought it must be a gang of some kind. She spoke of them in her sleep, and I could never entirely tell."

Hermione allowed herself to breathe again; at least he did not have all the information. He did not know the true nature of the 'wolves'.

"No." she said quietly, "I've never heard of them, but I have not been around here long, either. You're certain it was north?"

Jules looked up at her, disappointment lingering in his eyes. "I suppose the direction could have been off." His voice held a tone of regret that Hermione had not heard before.

"You said your sister spoke of them? Where is she?"

Tears welled up in the man's eyes, and he looked as though he was ready to punch something. "She's gone. She has to be with them. That one. He took her. I have to find her; I have to save her."

"I'm so sorry, Jules. I—I wish there was something I could do." Hermione's stomach clenched at the lie. She had a suspicion that his sister was, in fact, among the werewolves in Fenrir's pack.

"I'm sorry." Jules quickly composed himself, wiping his face. "I did not mean to get so emotional. I just wanted to know if you had maybe known something. I will merely have to keep searching. No matter; I have to get you to London first." He put on a small smile; "I am going out to check on the car, do you need anything?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, thank you."

Jules nodded, and straightened his lean body as he stood. "I will be back, then."

Hermione nodded, still uncomfortable.

Jules closed the door quietly behind him as he left. Hermione stared after him; the poor man. She was in no position to help him right now. Perhaps someday she could get him to see his sister. She found herself growing more curious about the young woman he had mentioned, wondering if she had seen her before. She glanced at the door that connected their sleeping areas. On the off chance that he had not quite left yet, Hermione knocked on the pass-through door, but she was met with silence. She turned to knob and walked into the room. Hermione may have been an observant young woman, but going through someone else's belongings was not high on her list of things she did on a regular basis. She hoped Jules had a picture of her somewhere, and, after a moment of looking around the room, found one on the single dresser in the small space.

Hermione studied the girl's face. She was perhaps a year or two older than herself, with honey-blond hair and a shy smile. The woman in the photo was vaguely familiar, but she could not place a name to the face. The witch sighed sadly at the situation and turned to leave the space. A small piece of paper caught her eye, and her curiosity overcame her respect of privacy. It looked like a letter. Hermione picked it up off the surface, accidently dropping the paper that had rested beneath it. She absent-mindedly picked up the paper that had fallen to the floor, still intent on the letter. She could not make out the script; what had once been neat handwriting, had been smudged and blotted out, as though the paper had been dropped in a puddle. The one thing she could make out was the name at the end of the letter: Celia. That must be Jules' sister. Hermione carefully placed the ruined note back in its place on the dresser. Remembering that the paper in her other hand had been underneath the letter, Hermione moved to place that where it belonged as well. She glanced at the paper as she slid it under the letter, and quickly grabbed it back out again. In her hand was a mechanic's invoice, dated three days ago as completed.

The witch frowned at the paper in her hand. The car was fixed, according to this. It had been for days. Why had Jules not told her? Perhaps he was too concerned for his sister to be thinking clearly. Or, there was something else afoot. Hermione did not think Jules had any nefarious purposes, but she had been wrong before. What else had he been hiding from her? Once again curious, Hermione opened the top drawer of the dresser to find news articles and maps and blurry photographs. She grabbed the notebook that rested on top and began to rifle through it. Skimming the pages hastily, she found that the first half of the journal reflected what Jules had told her about what he thought he knew. The latter half told a different story entirely. There was a great deal crossed out; and one large word scrawled in red that made Hermione's heart race: Werewolf.

Hermione threw the notebook down into the drawer; closed the dresser hastily, and walked out of the room. She wanted to un-see what she had just discovered. Jules knew about the werewolves after all; or at least had a suspicion of them. The witch took a deep breath, and quickly decided that she needed a walk. She grabbed the hostel keys and the small handful of cash that Jules had given her before heading out the door and down the stairs to the street.

The witch set a brisk pace for herself as she stalked the empty streets of York. Her head was racing; Jules had been her only way out, and now she knew he had been lying to her. He seemed like he had good intentions, but she could never be too cautious. He could be being paid to keep her away from everything. Hermione did not want to think so ill of the man; he had been kind to her, seemingly caring for her welfare. He also cared about his sister, and that was hopefully his only motivation. Hermione had not bothered to read more in the notebook, but now she wished she had. If Jules knew about the werewolves, perhaps he also knew that Hermione could tell him more than she had been. She swallowed at the thought.

So intent on her own thoughts, Hermione did not notice where she was going. She did notice that the street in front of her now featured a dark-clad figure. Feeling instantly ill-at-ease, Hermione turned around to take a different route. Her breath caught in her throat for the third time that day as her exit was cut off by another dark figure; neither figure had any distinguishing marks, save for the black cloaks they were wearing. Glancing around wildly, Hermione caught sight of a side street and darted toward it. She had nearly reached it when another figure stepped out of the shadows, blocking her way.

"Not so fast, girly."

The figures closed in around her, and Hermione realized she had nowhere to run. She did not think the situation could get any worse; at least, until the three figures pulled back their hoods to reveal themselves. The cackle that erupted from the figure behind her caused her blood to run cold. A chill ran down through her entire body at the shrill sound that could only come from one witch.

_Bellatrix Lestrange._


End file.
